


see the worth

by starstrung



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Curses, Drowning, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pirates, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Zolf is a lighthouse keeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27002353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Wilde goes to stay at a lighthouse temple of Poseidon to heal from his curse. He's not expecting to fall for the lighthouse's grief-stricken keeper.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 55
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with canon here, so it's very much a divergent alternate universe. Enjoy.
> 
> Am I posting this because I need serotonin after 174? Maybe so.

Wilde should have known what he was getting into when the coachman of his carriage just begins to laugh when he tells him his destination. It certainly doesn’t inspire confidence.

“What’s so funny?” Wilde asks, a bit peeved.

“Nothing,” the coachman says. He takes Wilde’s luggage and stows it away, still chuckling. “You’ll probably be needing me to come pick you up pretty soon though. That Zolf Smith does not abide company.”

There are very few who abide Wilde’s company these days, anyway. “Well, I’m afraid he doesn’t have a choice in that,” Wilde says, tiredly. It was a long train ride here, and a long sea voyage before that, and Wilde desperately wants to sleep somewhere that isn’t moving.

The coachman looks skeptical and more than a little curious, but Wilde doesn’t say anything more than that. It’s very unlikely that the people of this small fishing hamlet know that Zolf Smith’s lighthouse is actually a Harlequin-operated outpost. Best to keep it that way.

Wilde spends the carriage ride staring out the window at his new surroundings. What a gloomy, godsforsaken place this is. Nothing but grey cliffs and grey seas and grey skies. Wilde feels drained of color. If sunlight has ever touched this place, it has barely left a mark.

Then they reach the lighthouse.

It stands precariously perched on a high promontory overlooking the sea. Wilde doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more grim sight in his life. Looking up at its distant point is enough to give him an unnerving sense of vertigo. He swallows this down and climbs out of the carriage.

“My thanks,” Wilde says, paying the coachman. 

“Send me a shout when you’re ready to leave,” the coachman says, with a wink, and then he rattles off in his carriage, leaving Wilde at the foot of the lighthouse.

Well, it’s not as if Curie didn’t know what she was doing when she sent him here. Wilde takes up his luggage and knocks on the front door.

Immediately, there is a clamor. Wilde can hear swearing, the sound of something falling over, more swearing. Then the door swings open abruptly, revealing a very angry looking dwarf.

Wilde stares. He hadn’t known that Zolf Smith was a _dwarf_. To his knowledge, dwarves did not care much for the sea, and to find a cleric of Poseidon who was a dwarf was rare indeed. He recovers quickly, though, and offers Zolf his hand.

“Oscar Wilde, at your service,” Wilde says, smiling in a way that he knows from experience is sure to charm any crowd.

Zolf, however, does not seem to be charmed at all. He looks Wilde up and down with a scowl, staring at Wilde’s hand like it’s going to bite him. Eventually, he reaches up and shakes it roughly enough to wrench Wilde’s arm in its socket. Wilde takes note of his callused grip, the hardened hands of someone who has worked his entire life. 

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Zolf says, and then turns around and walks back into the lighthouse.

Wilde blinks, and then follows after him, dragging his luggage behind. He wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but surely he deserved more than such a terse greeting.

“Curie told you to expect my arrival, I expect?” Wilde says, wheezing a little. He doesn’t remember his trunk being _so_ heavy. The least this Zolf Smith could do was help him with one of the smaller items.

“She told me I had to babysit an ex-Meritocrat agent who got too in over his head, yeah,” Zolf says. He begins to walk up the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you to where you’ll be sleeping.”

Wilde cranes his neck up. There are a lot of stairs. His arms practically crumble to dust at the mere thought of carrying his luggage up that high.

“Could I perhaps trouble you for a room on the ground floor?” Wilde says, hopefully.

Zolf rounds on him. “What?” 

Wilde gestures at his luggage. Zolf seems to see it for the first time.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, and with an impressive grunt, hoists Wilde’s trunk onto his shoulders like it weighs nothing at all. He begins to walk up the stairs with it.

Wilde follows after, a little stunned, clutching his travel bag to his chest. He can see the cords of muscle standing out in Zolf’s neck, but when Zolf begins to talk there is no evidence of strain in his voice.

“This is a temple of Poseidon, not a vacation spot, mind you. You won’t be having any of your socialite parties here. This is my place of work, and I have duties that go with that, so the best you can do is stay out of my hair.”

“Curie said you could, er, uncurse me,” Wilde says. 

“Curie says a lot of things,” Zolf says, darkly. “I’ll look you over for this curse, but no promises.”

Wilde takes this opportunity to make his own assessment of Zolf. He definitely seems to be in good shape, even if his manners are atrocious. And he’s extremely attractive too, in that rugged sailor sort of way. Perhaps the next few months will pass more enjoyably than Wilde anticipated.

“It’s just you here?” Wilde asks.

“Yeah. One lighthouse keeper, one watchman of the seas. Traditional of Poseidon. Why d’you ask?”

“No reason,” Wilde says. “It must get lonely.”

“Yeah, and I prefer it that way,” Zolf says, pointedly. 

He pushes open a door and heaves Wilde’s trunk into the room. “This is you. Washroom’s just down that way. I’m in the next room. Don’t go into the oil room and don’t go up to the beacon, you’ll only hurt yourself. And don’t go wandering off in the dark, otherwise you’ll fall off a cliff.”

Wilde just nods. He has a lot of questions, but it doesn’t seem like Zolf is in the mood to answer them. He’ll just have to do his own investigating.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Zolf says, and with that, Wilde is left alone.

The room is snug, but surprisingly comfortable. The bed looks clean, heaped with quilts. The tiny window looks out over the ocean. There is even a small desk. Wilde opens his trunk and begins the long process of unpacking, hanging his clothes up in the tiny closet, setting all his books and his notes on the desk.

Wilde takes out his small shaving mirror, and then catches sight of his reflection in it. Gods, he looks terrible. He barely recognizes himself. Grizzop was brutal with cutting off his hair — it makes his face look even more hollow and worn, like there’s hardly any life in it at all. Wilde feels such a sudden loathing of himself that it is an effort not to throw the mirror against the wall and shatter it.

But that would be childish, unseemly. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and puts his mirror into a drawer, where he won’t have to look at it, and continues to take things out of his trunk.

After a few hours, Zolf shows up in the doorway. “Dinner’s up,” he says.

Wilde looks up at him from the floor, where he’s kneeling between a mess of his unpacked things. “Dinner?”

“Do they not have that in whatever posh society you come from?” Zolf says, his arms crossed. “Dinner. I cook it. You eat it. Usually at the end of the day.”

Wilde cannot remember the last time someone made him a meal. He stands up. “I know what dinner is,” he says, defensively.

“Right,” Zolf says. His eyes go down to Wilde’s ankles. “Those your anti-magic cuffs, then?”

Wilde looks down. He had taken off his shoes, so his cuffs are visible now, peeking out from beneath his trousers. “Yes,” Wilde says, ignoring the wave of disgust, of fury at himself.

“Hmm,” Zolf says. “Well, I’ll take a look tomorrow. Come on, soup’s going to get cold.”

Wilde follows Zolf down to the kitchen, which is pleasantly warm and full of tantalizing smells. They sit down at the small table — Wilde has to maneuver his long legs to fit since it is clear that the table was designed more for a dwarf than for a human. 

When Zolf hands him his food, Wilde finds himself surprisingly ravenous. Perhaps it is just that this is the first hot meal he’s had in a long time, or that he’s being made to sit down and eat it with someone else instead of taking absentminded bites of food while distracted with work. Either way, Wilde quickly finishes his first helping, and finds himself in the very unusual (for him) situation of asking Zolf for a second.

Zolf spoons him more soup, looking bemused. He gets up, and comes back with some cold meat pies, which Wilde digs into as well.

“Do they not have real food where you come from?” Zolf asks.

“Not really, unless you count octopus tarts and foamed egg,” Wilde says, dryly. Gods, even this bread is amazing, fresh-baked and warm.

“Foamed egg?” Zolf says, in disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

Wilde shakes his head, and leans forward in his seat with a smile, for once eager to share this story. “Not at all. The last soirėe I went to, they served us swirls of foamed egg on silver spoons. They were enchanted spoons, you see. They kept the foam peaks from collapsing too soon. Ingenious, really. The most delicate piece of spellcraft I’ve seen in a long time.”

Zolf’s eyebrows have climbed practically to his hairline. “And this is what they gave you to eat? Some raw egg on a spoon? No wonder you left.”

Some of Wilde’s enthusiasm leaves him, and he pauses in the middle of polishing off his second meat pie. “It wasn’t by choice,” he says. He had danced at that party, and sung as well. He misses singing. He wonders if he’ll ever get to sing like that again.

He can feel Zolf studying him, so Wilde sighs and says, “Go on, ask me what happened. I know you want to.”

“I don’t care what happened,” Zolf says. “I’m not involved in any of that any more. I’m only taking you in as a favor to Curie. She told me you needed to lie low somewhere, so I’m letting you lie low. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll get sick of me soon. Everyone always does.”

“That is what the coachman who brought me here told me,” Wilde says. “Seems you’ve built quite a reputation for yourself down at the village.”

“Yeah, as some cantankerous, unfriendly bastard of a Poseidon cleric, no doubt,” Zolf says.

“You left out uncommonly handsome,” Wilde says. He means for it to be a teasing, offhand sort of comment, but Zolf looks at him like he’s just spat in his soup.

“Finish your dinner,” Zolf growls, and that’s the end of that.

  
  
  


The ankle cuffs given to him by the Temple of Artemis do their work. Wilde sleeps well that night, protected from his curse. It’s almost worth it.

  
  
  


When Wilde comes down the next morning, there is a loaf of bread waiting for him, leftover from yesterday. He eats this with some marmalade he finds, goes to make himself a cup of tea, burns himself trying to light the stove, and gives it up as a bad job. There is no sign of Zolf.

At a loss of what else to do, Wilde goes for a walk.

The wind coming off the ocean is so chilly and brisk that Wilde, very soon, begins to shiver. His waistcoat and shirt are no protection against the cold. He thinks wistfully of his fur coat, hanging uselessly in his closet. It’s too late to turn back though — Wilde pushes steadily on, seagrass whipping against his ankles, the smell of brine in the air.

It’s almost beautiful, in an unforgiving sort of way. Wilde stands on the edge of the white sea cliffs, looking down at the rocky beach. It seems there is a path that goes down, but he’s content to just stand here, going steadily numb in the sharp wind.

“What are you doing here?”

Wilde spins around. Zolf stares up at him, looking his usual irritated self.

Wilde makes himself smile. He doesn’t _want_ to be at odds with Zolf, after all, even though it’s damnably difficult not to get onto his bad side. “Good morning,” he says, as pleasantly as he can.

“What are you _wearing_?” Zolf says angrily.

Wilde looks down at himself. His hands are turning an alarming shade of blue, and he finds that he’s begun to shiver quite violently.

“I do have a coat,” Wilde says. “Back at the lighthouse.”

“Unbelievable,” Zolf says, under his breath. He pulls off the thick jumper he’s wearing, and hands it to Wilde.

“Wear this before you freeze,” Zolf says.

Wilde takes the jumper. It’s woolen and heavy, slightly frayed. Zolf looks at him expectantly, so Wilde pulls it on over his head and instantly feels much warmer. He may be much taller than Zolf, but Zolf is broader in the chest and shoulders, so it doesn’t fit too badly, even if it’s a little short at the torso. Wilde blinks at Zolf.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Since you’re here, we might as well get started,” Zolf says.

“Get started on what?” Wilde says, but Zolf is already walking away. Wilde swears under his breath and follows after Zolf.

“Your curse,” Zolf tells him over his shoulder. “We’re going to look at it.”

“All right,” Wilde says. “Why are we going this way?”

Zolf doesn’t answer. Wilde sighs, and follows him as they head down to the beach. Zolf takes him to a cave set into the cliffs. Inside, it is immediately dark, oppressively cold. The smell of brine is thick, inescapable.

Wilde puts out a hand, trying to find the wall to steady himself. He can’t see anything.

“Zolf?” he calls, uncertainly.

Zolf’s voice comes from out of the darkness. “Oh, right, forgot you humans can’t see shit in the dark.”

Well, that just seems unfair. Wilde scowls.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Zolf says. He sounds amused. Wilde immediately schools his features, chagrined. He had forgotten, somehow, that Zolf could see his face perfectly well even if Wilde couldn’t see Zolf’s. Serving the meritocrats for so long told him better than to let others see his emotions so easily.

Wilde feels a tugging at his sleeve. He yelps.

“Calm down, it’s just me,” Zolf says. He tugs Wilde’s sleeve harder, using it to guide him deeper into the cavern.

“You’re enjoying this,” Wilde says sourly.

“What gave it away?” Zolf says, and now he sounds positively cheerful.

“Where are we going anyway?” Wilde asks. “You’re not going to stab me and leave me for dead here, are you? That wouldn’t be very sporting of you.” Despite his light tone, Wilde feels a spark of anxiety. He has grown used to feeling defenseless without his magic, but here it’s even more obvious how easy it would be for Zolf to do him harm.

“I’m not going to stab you,” Zolf says. “Stabbing isn’t really Poseidon’s style anyway. If I was going to do you in, I’d drown you.”

Wilde rolls his eyes. “Oh, how reassuring, thank you.”

His foot catches against the uneven ground, and he stumbles forward. Zolf takes hold of his arm with a surprisingly steady grip, keeping him from falling face first onto the ground.

“Thank you,” Wilde mumbles. He straightens, and Zolf moves his grip from Wilde’s arm to take his hand. Wilde squeezes it gratefully.

Zolf sighs. “I don’t have a way of casting light here, but you should be able to see better soon.” He sounds almost apologetic.

Zolf is right. Eventually, light begins to filter from overhead, enough that Wilde is finally able to see the ground beneath his feet. He blinks, looking around, finding themselves in a large cavern. The sound of waves is muffled, but not too distant. There are pools of blue water all around them, glittering in the light. The air feels different here, a strange presence in the air that Wilde has felt only rarely, in temples.

“This is a holy place, isn’t it,” Wilde says, quietly.

“Yes,” Zolf says. He lets go of Wilde’s hand to walk to the edge of one the pools, looking into it. “It’s a place to remember those drowned in the name of Poseidon.”

A shiver goes up Wilde’s spine. He tries desperately to remember everything he knows about the history of the Cult of Poseidon. It’s not much.

“And you are… guardian of this place?” Wilde asks. He joins Zolf at the edge of the pool, looking down. It is an almost unnatural crystal blue, clear and depthless. He cannot see the bottom.

Zolf shrugs. “There has to be a cleric to look after this place. It’s tradition.” He sighs, and looks up at Wilde. “All right, enough, let’s get this over with. Get in the pool.”

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” 

“Oh, don't look at me like that. I’m not going to fucking drown you,” Zolf tells him.

“That’s just what you would say if you _were_ about to drown me,” Wilde points out.

“I mean, I could have just done it by now,” Zolf says. “You don’t look like you’d put up a fight.”

Wilde backs up a step. He feels nausea claw at his gut. He _knows_ he’s in no condition to defend himself, but to have it pointed out so bluntly strikes a nerve that he wasn’t even aware he had.

Zolf looks apologetic. “Look, that came out wrong. I’m sorry.” Zolf scrubs at his face. “I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long time, all right? I’m out of practice.”

“I could have told you that,” Wilde says, still wary. “Your manners are atrocious. They are actively bad.”

Zolf frowns. “Yes, fine, all right. I apologized already, can we move on?”

Wilde considers this, and decides that Zolf looks contrite enough. “All right,” he says, loftily. “I suppose I forgive you.”

“Gracious of you,” Zolf says, sarcastically. “Take off your shackles. I need to be able to cast on you.”

“Oh,” Wilde says, looking down at his ankles. He hasn’t taken off his shackles once since first putting them on. He squashes down a nervous feeling at the thought of being without their protection.

“You’re safe here,” Zolf tells him. “This place is under Poseidon’s protection.”

Wilde considers this. He’s never really had enough interest in the doings of gods to rely on their protection. Handsome clerics, on the other hand, are a different story altogether. “And your protection as well?” Wilde asks, meaning it to be flirtatious. It comes out far too tentative for that. He winces internally.

Zolf looks startled, and then his lips twitch. “As you like. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

It shouldn’t reassure him, but it does. Wilde takes the key that he always carries with him, and unlocks his shackles. As soon as they are off, he feels like a sudden load has been lifted from his shoulders. He takes one cautious breath, then another. His lungs feel freer, and there is magic sparking at his fingertips. He twirls his fingers and casts a small illusion of purple glitter, marveling at how simple it is, how good it feels. He laughs, small and delighted.

He looks to find Zolf staring at him, an odd expression on his face. “What?” Wilde says, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

Zolf turns to face the water. “You’ll need to get into the pool. It’s to help me call on Poseidon.”

“Get me all wet and dripping. I see how it is,” Wilde says nervously, under his breath. 

“Excuse me?” Zolf says, sounding appalled. And then, alarmed, “Wait, what are you _doing_?”

Wilde pauses halfway through taking his trousers off. “Well, I’m not going to get in fully dressed, am I?”

“You don’t have to take off your _clothes_ ,” Zolf says, his voice climbing in pitch.

“You mean to say that when you’ve done this for other people, they’ve gotten into the pool with all their clothes on?” Wilde says in disbelief. “That seems extremely uncomfortable. Besides, saltwater would ruin these clothes. I may have left all of civilization behind to live on a rock, but I’ve not _completely_ fallen into ruin, thank you very much.”

Zolf says something under his breath.

“What was that?” Wilde says.

Zolf throws him a look. “I said, I’ve never done this for other people. You’re the first person I’ve taken here.”

“You’ve never done this before?” Wilde says, in surprise. Curie had told him Zolf could uncurse him. Was that just to get him to do what she wanted? He wouldn’t put it past her.

“I never said I was an expert in curses,” Zolf says, impatiently. Wilde just stares at him. “Look, just get into the damn pool.”

Wilde huffs, and finishes stepping out of his trousers, folding them up neatly and placing them on a rock that looks relatively dry. Already he can feel goosebumps rising on his skin. He’s not looking forward to how icy the water will be. He takes off the jumper Zolf gave him, and his shirt, and folds these as well, until he’s standing in nothing but his underwear.

Zolf turned away while he was undressing to look studiously at a wall, but he turns around when Wilde clears his throat.

Wilde raises his chin, suppressing his shivers. “Ready,” he says, through gritted teeth.

Zolf scowls. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you _want_ to get hypothermia. For Poseidon’s sake, come here.”

Wilde approaches him uncertainly. Zolf puts a hand on Wilde’s arm. Magical warmth emanates from that touch, spreading all across Wilde’s body until he can’t feel the cold anymore. He shudders, almost violently. It’s been a long time since someone has cast magic on him, and a long time before that since someone has cast magic on him this gently, laid protections on him, blessed him. Wilde blinks rapidly against the rush of emotion.

“There,” Zolf says, his voice gone curiously soft. “You’re not good at asking for help when you need it, are you?”

“I was fine,” Wilde says, unable to look at Zolf.

“Sure,” Zolf says, sounding unconvinced. “When you’re ready, just get in. Make sure you hold onto the rocks.”

Wilde takes a breath, and lowers himself into the pool. It doesn’t feel cold at all. Whatever protection Zolf cast over him is working. He holds onto the rocks, floating there. 

He looks up to see that Zolf is taking off his boots. Wilde lets out an involuntary gasp.

Zolf’s legs are made of water. They are translucent, as blue as the water that Wilde is floating in, a curious glow to them. 

“What…” Wilde says, staring.

“Don’t ask,” Zolf says, and then he steps onto the surface of the water.

Wilde doesn’t know how to explain what happens next, even though he watches it all carefully. Zolf’s legs seem to melt into the water, joining with the surface there. A curious energy begins to emanate from the water, settling all across Wilde’s skin. He feels like he’s being held in place, the gaze of something powerful turned upon him.

Wilde has done a number of things in his life. He’s played spy and saboteur, he’s written ballads, he’s been in orgies, he’s sung for crowds, he’s penned enough satire to make enemies on several continents. He’s never been part of a holy ritual before. 

Because this is what it is. Zolf kneels above him on the water, his eyes glowing with divine light, strange words pouring from his lips. He takes Wilde’s face between his hands, staring into Wilde’s eyes until Wilde feels like he _is_ drowning after all, except he’s drowning in light and sensation, the calm before an endless storm.

Zolf looks like something out of a legend. Wilde’s never really had time for legends — he considers them on the whole rather unimaginative. He might have to reassess that.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He only knows that when Zolf stops chanting and draws back, Wilde feels curiously bereft. He wants to chase after that feeling. He wants Zolf to touch him like that again.

Zolf helps him out of the pool. If he notices how unsteady Wilde’s legs are, he doesn’t comment on it. Wilde dries himself with magic, enjoying the feeling of it all over again. He lets himself savor it for a moment, before putting his shackles back on, and getting dressed. As soon as his shackles are back on, Zolf’s protection fades. He can feel the oppressive cold of the cavern again, and is grateful for Zolf’s jumper.

“So?” Wilde asks Zolf. “Did that actually do anything?”

Zolf has put his boots back on while Wilde was getting dressed. Wilde very desperately wants to ask him about his legs, but the moment has passed. “Your curse is an ugly piece of work,” Zolf says. “Someone out there doesn’t like you very much.”

“Oh, really?” Wilde says, dryly. “And here I thought I made friends wherever I went.”

“Well, one of these friends of yours wanted you to suffer slowly and quietly until your brains bled out of your ears,” Zolf tells him. “Sound like anyone in particular?”

“Let me think,” Wilde says. “There are several counts, a lord or two, a handful of jilted lovers, at least half the population of Dublin, perhaps a—”

Zolf holds up a hand. “All right, I get the point. Look, let’s go back to the lighthouse. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Are you making me tea because you can’t break my curse?”

Zolf frowns at him. “I’m making you tea because you look like you need tea.”

“Oh,” Wilde says, thrown by this. “So... that means you _can_ break my curse?” 

Zolf looks at Wilde for a long moment, like he’s debating something with himself, and then says, “Listen, no promises, all right? But yeah, I reckon I can give it a go. I don’t think you deserve what was done to you.”

“I might have done,” Wilde points out. “You don’t know me, after all.”

“No, I don’t,” Zolf says. “But unless you decide to leave, I guess I’ll _have_ to get to know you, won’t I?”

Wilde lets out a breath. Zolf is very unlike anyone he’s ever met. He doesn’t know why it’s so easy to trust him, why he wants for Zolf to trust him in return.

“So, that tea, then?” Wilde says.

Zolf holds out his hand for Wilde to take. “Right this way.”

They go back through the dark caves to the lighthouse, and Zolf puts the kettle on and makes them both tea. Zolf lowers himself into the chair opposite Wide with a low grunt.

“The magic you cast, before,” Zolf says, breaking the silence. “You’re an illusionist?”

“I was,” Wilde says, feeling the familiar stab of regret. “Not anymore.”

“It’s not an easy thing, to be without your magic.”

Wilde cups his hands around his tea, letting it warm him. “No, it’s not. It feels like I’m missing some fundamental piece. I used to take it for granted, to be able to make illusions, glamors, to change my appearance at a whim, to mask myself however I chose. All of that is gone now. I was a fool.” Wilde laughs, shakily. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

To Wilde’s surprise, Zolf smiles. It’s a small, wry smile, and it instantly makes him appear ten years younger. Wilde briefly finds his breath caught in his chest, looking at it.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be missing a part of yourself?” Zolf says, still with that odd faraway smile. “To feel like you’ve lost something you’re never going to get back?”

Wilde is silent. He can see Zolf’s watery legs peeking out from the tops of his boots. “I’m sorry,” Wilde says.

“Don’t say that,” Zolf says, but there is a gentleness to it. “What have you got to be sorry about? Be sorry for yourself, if anything.”

“I’ve spent a long time feeling sorry for myself,” Wilde says, smiling back. “A bit of a distraction would be nice.”

“Fair enough,” Zolf says. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Wilde feels warm, strangely at peace. He keeps pulling the cuffs of Zolf’s jumper over his wrists, breathing in the briny woodsmoke smell of it. He wonders if this is what Zolf smells like too.

He likes it here, he decides.

  
  
  


Through careful observation, Wilde memorizes Zolf’s schedule over the next few weeks. Zolf hauls oil up to the beacon, keeping the lamp lit, cleaning the glass so that it shines clearly. Occasionally, Wilde will find him in the workshop, fixing something that has broken, keeping the lighthouse in operating condition. In addition to that, Zolf makes the meals, using supplies that are delivered to them weekly from the village. 

Zolf is very particular about his kitchen. Wilde has made the mistake of offering to help cook once, only to have Zolf chase him out of the kitchen, brandishing a spoon. 

And then, a few hours per day, Zolf disappears. At first, Wilde thought he might be going into the caves, but then he’s walking the cliffs one day and sees Zolf on the beach. Zolf stands in the water with his boots off, his watery legs visible, looking like he’s one step away from melting into the ocean entirely. He just stands there, unmoving, like he’s caught in prayer.

Wilde spends most of his time these days writing. 

He hasn’t written this much in a long time, not since before he was recruited by the Meritocrats, and he was still a starving reporter barely making ends meet, sitting with his typewriter in his cramped room in a godsforsaken boarding house in London.

It would be nice to finish a novel, he thinks. 

But the days that Wilde looks forward to the most are the ones when Zolf gets done with his tasks early, and takes Wilde to the caves. 

There, Wilde will take off his shackles and his clothes, slip into the pool, and Zolf will glow with that fierce light again, working away at his curse little by little. He’s not sure if Zolf is making headway on it or not. All Wilde knows is that he’s never felt like this before — vulnerable yet protected all at the same time.

His appetite is the best it’s ever been. His hair is growing out. Wilde pulls his shaving mirror out of his drawer and lets himself think of the future, after he is better.

The only trouble is, Wilde’s _other_ appetites have returned as well.

He doesn’t really think much of it at first. He wakes up warm and comfortable one cold morning, and notes absently that he’s half hard beneath the blankets. It’s only after he’s spent a few pleasant minutes grinding his hips idly against the mattress and moaning into his pillow that Wilde realizes this is the first time he’s gotten himself off in a long time.

Well, that certainly won’t do.

Coming awake fully now, Wilde settles on his back, taking himself in hand. He hasn’t been touched in ages, but it doesn’t take too much effort to conjure up a familiar fantasy of strong hands holding him down, opening him up, of wet mouths and clever tongues. He strokes himself to full hardness, letting his thighs fall open, letting his toes curl and uncurl. It feels so _good_ to let himself be a mindless thing of pleasure again, caught in the uncomplicated act of fulfilling all this need and hunger.

And then, quite by accident, Wilde thinks of Zolf. 

Wilde moans, the pace of his hand quickening on his cock. Gods, how he wants Zolf to touch him like he means it. He wants Zolf’s fingers in his mouth. He wants so badly to _taste_ him. Wilde wants to be made to kneel in front of Zolf while he’s lit up with that bright divine glory and pleasure him with his mouth right there on the cave floor, like he’s some tribute to Poseidon, offering himself up to his cleric.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s whining Zolf’s name with increasing desperation, so caught up in this fantasy. It’s only after he’s come with a long groan, and has spent a few minutes staring gape-mouthed at the ceiling, recovering from the force of that climax, that he remembers that Zolf’s room is _right there_ , and he can’t trust the walls not to be thin. 

Well, too late to worry about that.

  
  
  


It doesn’t really help that Zolf is so annoyingly _unattainable_.

There’s not really much entertainment here at the lighthouse, so Wilde has made it a sort of project to try and seduce Zolf. He’s tried a multitude of techniques. He has tried licking his fingers at dinner to try and bring Zolf’s attention to his mouth, to no avail. Zolf had simply asked him with some concern if he needed a napkin.

He’s tried touching Zolf. Just an occasional hand on his shoulder as they pass each other in the cramped lighthouse, or once, daringly, brushing Zolf’s hair back with his fingers when it had fallen into his eyes. Zolf had just smiled at him, and then had told him very sternly to drink his tea before it got cold.

It’s no use. No matter what he wears, it seems like Zolf looks at him the same way. In fact he seems to prefer it when Wilde is wearing one of Zolf's lumpy, frayed jumpers, or at least he’s less prone to scolding Wilde for not taking better care of himself. Even when Wilde undresses for him in the caves, Zolf never watches. It’s a pity — Wilde considers himself rather good at putting on a show.

He’s nothing if not persistent, however.

It all comes to a head one night after dinner. For once, Zolf had asked for Wilde’s help in bringing some equipment from outside into the workshop. There was a storm coming, he said. Wilde does not know how Zolf can tell the weather when the sky looks just as gloomy as ever, but he hasn’t been wrong before. 

After they’ve finished dragging everything inside, Wilde is sore and exhausted, but Zolf pats him on his back and says, “You did well today. Thank you.” 

Wilde feels like he’s glowing. He sits peaceably at the dinner table, looking down at his blistering hands, and feels a sort of pride. He did well.

“I think you earned this,” Zolf says, producing a bottle of whiskey.

“Oh, yes, please,” Wilde says happily.

Zolf pours him some. Zolf only has a mismatched assortment of worn ceramic mugs at his lighthouse. Wilde thinks of the days when he would cycle between squat glass tumblers and elegant champagne flutes and angular martini glasses. He runs the pad of his thumb along the rough chipped edge of his mug and realizes that he doesn’t miss those days at all. How curious.

“You never told me what happened to your legs,” Wilde says, sipping his whiskey.

“Not a great story,” Zolf says. “I used to be a mercenary. I lost them in a fight. Poseidon gave me these in return for my continued service. I guess they’ve come in handy.”

Wilde does not miss the bitterness in Zolf’s voice. He hums quietly.

Zolf goes on. “I’ve been keeper of this lighthouse for going on five years now. As long as I’m here, the people of the village stay safe.”

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “They would be in danger otherwise?”

Zolf shrugs. “The story goes that the people of this fishing village angered Poseidon a long time ago. So they were drowned in the pools.”

A chill goes up Wilde’s spine. 

Zolf sees the look on his face, and grimaces. “It’s a story, mind you. Even I don’t know if it’s true. Anyway, there haven’t been any drownings here in a long time.”

“Is it because there’s always been a keeper of the lighthouse?” Wilde suggests.

“Could be,” Zolf says, sipping at his whiskey. He doesn’t seem troubled by this possibility. Wilde supposes he’s had a while to get used to it.

“And what made you join the Harlequins?” Wilde asks.

Zolf grunts. “You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

“My dear Zolf, I think it’s you who’s full of mysteries,” Wilde says.

“Yeah, and I like it that way, thanks,” Zolf says. Zolf spends a long time looking at his hands, like he’s studying their whorls. “It was my brother who was the Harlequin. He died. It was my fault. So I offered this place as an outpost for them. In memory of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilde says. He doesn’t know if Zolf even hears him. There’s a grief in his face that Wilde has only seen glimpses of, bone-deep and wearying.

Rain begins to lash heavily on the window. Lightning flashes, briefly interrupting the warm glow of the kitchen.

“It’s started,” Zolf sighs. “It’s going to be a rough one.”

“How can you tell?”

“You just get a sense of these things,” Zolf says vaguely. Wilde has found out that this is Zolf’s answer for many things, including whether or not dinner has had enough time in the oven, and at what time the grocer’s boy will arrive with their food. 

“I’m surprised, you know,” Zolf says. “I didn’t think you’d stick around this long.”

“Yes, I think several people in the village may have lost a bet on my account,” Wilde says, swirling his whiskey around in his mug. “They all seemed to think I’d be gone within the week.”

“Why _have_ you stuck around?” Zolf asks quietly.

Wilde shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“That can't be true.”

Wilde thinks about it. “No, I suppose not.”

“You don’t have to tell me the reason,” Zolf says. “I’m just glad, is all. You’re good company, Oscar Wilde.”

Wilde preens, just a little bit. “I’d return the compliment, but I think we both know I’d be lying.”

Zolf throws back his head and laughs. Wilde feels loose and over-warm with whiskey, and he thinks Zolf’s laughter might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. It makes him reckless.

Zolf gets up to pour them both more whiskey, briefly standing close enough to Wilde that Wilde can feel the warmth of him. He can’t help it. He leans in and presses his lips to Zolf’s.

At first, Zolf kisses him back. He crowds Wilde up against the back of his chair and takes control of the kiss as easy as that. It turns slow and searing, one rough hand pressed at Wilde’s jaw to keep him in place. Wilde puts his hands on Zolf’s hips as they kiss, letting his fingers slip beneath the hem of Zolf’s shirt and brush bare skin. He tips his head up and lets out a soft, pleased sound, spreading his knees apart so that Zolf can lean in even closer. 

And then, with a quick gasp, Zolf turns his head sharply to the side so that Wilde’s lips brush his beard instead.

“I — I don’t do that sort of thing,” Zolf says, in a flat voice. He puts the bottle of whiskey down on the table with a thunk.

Wilde blinks. “Do what sort of thing?” 

“You know.” Zolf looks uncomfortable. “Sex that doesn’t mean anything.”

Wilde feels like he’s been slapped in the face. He leans away, putting distance between them. Of course. Zolf thinks Wilde doesn’t mean anything. Wilde doesn’t mean anything at all. 

He laughs.

Zolf narrows his eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Wilde says, still grinning. He’s far too drunk. He feels feral and rotting and so fucking lonely. He doesn’t even care that Zolf is looking at him with murder in his eyes. At least he has Zolf’s attention.

“What if I am?” Wilde says. Zolf looks like he wants to punch him. Wilde wishes he would.

But instead, Zolf makes a quick motion with his hands, and then a torrent of icy cold briny water drops on the top of Wilde’s head, drenching him. 

By the time Wilde has finished blinking stinging saltwater out of his eyes, Zolf is gone.

Wilde goes to his room and spends the rest of the night unpacking and repacking his trunk, trying to decide whether he’s leaving in the morning or not. Outside, the storm only gets more vicious, casting down violent rolls of thunder that shake the walls of the lighthouse. Wilde barely notices it, so preoccupied with the anger he feels, the hurt, the hate.

How many times was Wilde going to get pushed away before he realized that no one _wanted_ him anymore?

He doesn’t quite know what makes him stop unpacking his trunk to look out the window. It’s only by chance that he sees a flash of lightning illuminate the shipwreck.

He runs down the hall and hammers on Zolf’s door.

“Go away, Wilde,” Zolf says, his voice flat and unforgiving.

“There’s a shipwreck,” Wilde says, hastily, through the door. “I saw it.”

There is silence, and then Zolf yanks open his door. He stares at Wilde’s face, and then says, emphatically, “Fuck. Wait here.”

“I will not!” Wilde says, following Zolf down the stairs. Zolf is already pulling on his coat.

“Now is not the time for this,” Zolf says, angrily. “I’m not going to fucking babysit you while I go deal with this.”

“I don’t need babysitting,” Wilde says, pulling on his own coat. “I can help you.”

“I highly doubt—” Zolf sighs. “You know, what? Fine. Do what you want.”

He pulls open the door of the lighthouse, and then they set off into the storm. Wilde underestimated how strong the winds are. He feels at any moment like he will fly away into the ocean.

He grits his teeth and stumbles after Zolf, thunder crashing all around them, both of them rushing as quickly as they are able to the distant shipwreck on the beach. At night, the bright beacon of the lighthouse creates unsettling shadows across the landscape, making it almost unrecognizable. But Zolf doesn’t hesitate, not once. 

Wilde keeps his eyes on Zolf’s back. He doesn’t look anywhere else.

When they get down to the beach, the survivors are already washing up on the beach. The storm has whipped the ocean into a churning, angry thing. Wilde can see the ship on the horizon now, or what’s left of it. It’s already sunk mostly beneath the waves, the main mast barely visible. It’s difficult to see if there is anyone still in the water. Wilde counts ten figures clutching to the sand, gasping for breath.

“Does anyone need healing?” Zolf bellows, over the sound of the storm. He goes to the nearest figure, what appears to be a gnomish woman. He lifts her by the arm, turning her over. The gnome clutches at Zolf, and her eyes go wide with recognition.

“Zolf? Zolf Smith?”

Wilde cannot see Zolf’s face, but he hears the disbelief in his voice. “Amelia Earhart? What the hell are you doing here?”

Wilde sees Earhart’s face split into a fierce, wild grin. “Catching a storm. Looks like I caught it.”

With a chill, Wilde realizes who this is. Captain Amelia Earhart. Former Harlequin, and such a ruthless opponent to the Meritocracy that she’d left the order, and turned to piracy. The chances of her washing up here on this beach, now of all times. It seems that Wilde’s misfortune is only just beginning. 

Wilde has heard stories about the things Earhart has done to Meritocrat agents. She has a reputation for being merciless.

Earhart looks over Zolf’s shoulder, and her eyes meet Wilde. Wilde hopes, desperately, that she doesn’t recognize him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earhart and her pirate crew stay at the lighthouse; Zolf tries to help Wilde one last time.

The storm rages on. Wilde is soaked to his skin by the time they all make it back to the lighthouse, Earhart and her pirates in tow. 

Wilde has never seen Zolf like this. He immediately takes charge of getting everyone settled, making sure they have dry clothes, food, somewhere to sleep. Wilde does his best to help by making a pot of tea, which he has finally figured out how to do after Zolf took pity on him and showed him how. 

Wilde has always found that even the most difficult of situations is easier to bear when there’s something warm to drink in your hands. 

He hands out steaming mugs to everyone. They seem startled to receive the tea, but they all accept it from him and some of them even thank him for it. 

Wilde’s eyes meet Zolf’s from across the crowded room. Wilde expects Zolf to look at him disapprovingly, but Wilde finds that he cannot read the expression he finds there. Zolf nods at him, and Wilde freezes. Before he can say or do anything, Zolf is turning around to help another pirate.

“Didn’t think we would make it out of that one alive,” Earhart says. She is sitting up on a table, curled around her tea. The side of her face had been bleeding, but Zolf has healed that, so it only looks like fresh pink skin.

“What happened to the rest of your crew?” Zolf asks.

Earhart’s expression darkens. “I lost them a few days ago. A battle. It’s a long story. We were already on our way to your lighthouse, looking for safe haven. The storm that hit us on our way to you was just shitty bad luck.” She takes a long sip of tea. Wilde notices that her hands are shaking. “I guess you could say I’ve had plenty of that lately.”

“You don’t need to tell me what happened yet,” Zolf says. “Plenty of time for that. I reckon this storm is going to last for a few more days at least. You’ll all have to stay here until it does — there’s no room for you in the village, and the roads are probably nothing but slick mud right now anyway.”

“I owe you one, Zolf,” Earhart says.

“Infamous pirate, Amelia Earhart, in debt to me? Count me lucky,” Zolf says, dry. “You don’t owe me shit, Amelia. Get some fucking sleep before you embarrass yourself.”

Earhart shoots him a crooked grin. As he passes out the rest of the tea, Wilde wonders at what past history these two have had — he’s surprised that Earhart clearly trusts Zolf. Earhart does not seem the kind to trust people easily. 

Wilde notices that there are two pirates who are more injured than others, even after Zolf’s healing. 

“You can take my bed,” Wilde offers to them. They do both look half-dead. One of them, whose name Wilde caught as Barnes, leans heavily against the other, Carter. Wilde wonders if they’ll even be able to make it up the stairs.

“Thanks, mate,” Barnes says. “Carter, thank the nice man.”

Wilde puts up a hand. “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

Carter looks at Barnes. “I don’t want to thank him.” 

Barnes sighs, and gives Wilde an apologetic look. They both limp upstairs.

“And where the hell are you planning to sleep?”

Wilde swings around. He didn’t know Zolf was standing there. “I, er, I can just sleep on the ground, I’m sure.”

Zolf scowls. Wilde braces himself, expecting censure, but instead Zolf says, “Don’t be stupid. You can sleep in my room. My bed is big enough.”

“Oh, no, Zolf, that’s quite all right,” Wilde says, demurring as politely as he knows how.

“Can you stop fucking doing that,” Zolf snaps.

“Excuse me?”

“Being so — so proper. You’ve never spoken like that before. At least not after the first day.”

“I’m not—” Wilde sighs and rubs at his face. “Yes, all right, I don’t know how to speak to you right now. Don’t you think that’s fair? After what happened?”

“Not really,” Zolf says.

Wilde is about to say something in return, but then he sees Earhart approaching him and he snaps his mouth shut.

“Thanks for the tea, and for giving up your bed to my men,” Earhart says. “I don’t think you and I were introduced. I’m Amelia Earhart.” She sticks up her hand for him to shake.

Wilde hesitates, but he can’t find a way to lie when Zolf is still standing right there, listening to their conversation. He leans down and shakes her hand. “Oscar Wilde. Pleasure to meet you.” He doesn’t let the dread curdling in his gut show on his face.

But if Earhart recognizes the name, she doesn’t show it. She gives him another nod, and goes to the cot that has been set out for her. Wilde lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Perhaps this will be all right after all.

There is one last crewmember remaining in the room, a red-headed boy who looks far too young to be a pirate. Wilde remembers his name to be Simons. Wilde smiles comfortingly at him. “More tea?” he asks.

Simons stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head silently. 

Wilde cannot say what it is about this boy that unsettles him, whether it is the unblinking stare or his unbroken silence. He looks away and smiles nervously. “Well, good night.” 

Zolf takes Wilde by his arm and begins dragging him up the stairs. “Yeah, good night.”

Wilde allows this for a few steps and then pulls out of Zolf’s grasp. “I _can_ walk myself.”

“Well, you were taking forever.”

“First of all, I was being _hospitable_ ,” Wilde says. “You may not want people to feel welcome here, but that sort of thing does matter.”

They have reached Zolf’s room. Wilde marches in angrily and spins around. “Second of all, you don’t get to speak to me like that.”

Zolf closes the door. “I do when you’re being an idiot. What possessed you to give Earhart your actual name?” He drops the volume of his voice to a low hiss.

Wilde stops. “Sorry? Isn’t she your friend? You would have preferred for me to lie to her?”

“Yeah, instead of out yourself as a Meritocrat agent to Amelia fucking Earhart.”

“Ex-Meritocrat agent,” Wilde corrects. “Besides, she didn’t seem to recognize me.”

“I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her, if I were you,” Zolf says, still sounding angry. “Now take off those wet clothes, you’re dripping.”

“I—” Wilde looks down, only just realizing that he’s still sodden. He shivers violently.

“Here, I took these from your room,” Zolf says. He tosses Wilde a pile of clothes, and then turns his back to him to give him privacy.

Wilde, mollified, takes the clothes. He changes as quickly as he can, aware now of how cold he is.

“Did you just pick these at random?” he asks, pausing in the middle of buttoning up his nightshirt. “You know these pieces aren’t meant to go together, right?”

“You’re sleeping in them, not going to a ball. What does it matter?” Zolf says.

“It matters quite a lot, actually,” Wilde says, as condescending as he knows how. He finds that he _wants_ to irritate Zolf now. “Just because they’re the same color doesn’t mean it’s fine to wear them at the same time, you know.”

“Now listen here—” Zolf spins around and immediately his eyes go wide at Wilde’s still bare torso.

“You’re injured,” Zolf says.

Wilde looks down. There is an ugly bruise mottling the side of his waist. It must have happened while he was stumbling down the sharp rocky incline to get down to the beach. He prods at it and winces.

But Wilde has had worse. “I’m fine.”

“Stop _saying_ that,” Zolf snarls. He steps forward, and Wilde’s breath catches in his throat as he glows with divine light and presses a heavy hand against Wilde’s bruise.

As soon as Zolf touches him, the divine light dissipates, as if snuffed out. Instead of casting magic, Zolf’s hand just rests against Wilde’s waist, warm and solid.

“Did you, er, forget you can’t cast magic on me when my shackles are on?” Wilde says.

“No,” Zolf says, drawing his hand back. He frowns. “All right, yes, I did. Why d’you still have this stupid curse on you anyway?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who’s supposed to be curing me of it,” Wilde says. Why was Zolf being so _infuriating_?

“I know I am,” Zolf snaps. He glares up at Wilde and then all at once his shoulders slump and the anger melts away. He sits down heavily on the bed, and says, “I can’t do it. I can’t uncurse you. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What?” Wilde says.

“I can’t — I keep trying, but nothing is enough. I wanted to free you of it. I thought I would be able to at least do this, this one thing, keep this one promise. I give all of this service to Poseidon and he can’t even give me this in return.” Zolf is staring at his hands, and there is such despairing regret in his voice that Wilde kneels in front of him.

“You tried,” Wilde says, putting a hand on Zolf’s knee, just above where it turns into water. “You tried to help me. That’s more than I can say of anyone else I have met.”

Zolf looks at him. At this angle they are almost of a height, Zolf only just a bit taller than Wilde. Zolf reaches out and gently touches the side of Wilde’s face.

“What happened to you?” Zolf asks, softly.

“I thought you didn’t care to know,” Wilde says, smiling bitterly.

“I thought I didn’t care to know too. Turns out I do,” Zolf says.

Wilde gets to his feet, turning away from Zolf to finish putting on his nightshirt. “It was my mistake. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have trusted. He and I… I suppose you could say I loved him. Enough to not see that he didn’t love me back, and he certainly wasn’t a good person. He didn’t _want_ to love me, you see — he wanted to possess me. And when I finally told him no, he had me cursed for it.”

Zolf’s voice is low, a fury burning through it. “Who is he? The one who hurt you?”

“No one you would know. Why, are you going to go track him down?” Wilde jokes, laughing softly.

“Yes,” Zolf says.

Wilde turns to look at him in surprise. Zolf looks utterly serious.

“It’s not your fault,” Zolf tells him. “You said it was your mistake to trust him. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be punished for trusting someone you thought you loved.”

“I was a fool,” Wilde says, quietly. He has never known anyone to speak like this on his behalf — someone who has felt _anger_ on his behalf. “That’s all, I was a fool. It’s all right.” This was what the world did to fools, after all.

Zolf sighs. “Whatever. Fine. Ignore me. I’m too tired — I’m going to be nothing but nonsense until the morning. Let’s sleep, all right? If the weather is good enough to go down to the caves tomorrow, I’ll heal you then.” And with that, Zolf turns out the light and gets into bed.

Wilde stands there a moment, blinking into the darkness, but that seems to be all that Zolf is going to say. Wilde goes to the bed, sliding beneath the covers.

“Zolf,” he says, quietly.

“What now?” Zolf says. “Go to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Wilde says.

A long silence. Then, “You’re welcome, Oscar.”

  
  
  


Having ten pirates stay in close quarters with you is certainly an experience that Wilde has never had before. 

He wakes up to an empty bed. Zolf is in the kitchen, making a truly astounding amount of eggs and an enormous pot of oatmeal. There is no surface of the ground floor that is not covered in pirate. They are all busy digging into the food with extreme enthusiasm. It’s clear that none of them have seen a hot meal in a long time.

Wilde shoulders through three pirates standing in the kitchen digging into plates of food to find Zolf furiously stirring a skillet of eggs.

“Good morning,” Zolf says angrily.

“Er,” Wilde says. “Are you sure it’s good?”

“Sure fucking am. Best morning I’ve had. Eat some eggs.” Zolf yanks a plate from a cupboard, pours some wonderfully fluffy eggs into it, and shoves it at Wilde with such force that Wilde takes a step backwards, holding his eggs.

“Do you need help?” Wilde asks tentatively. There is sweat pouring down Zolf’s temple and his mouth is set in a hard, grim line. He begins to feverishly chop up some potatoes.

“Oatmeal’s on the left,” Zolf says. “Fresh tea’s in the pot. Now leave me alone.”

Wilde decides it’s best not to argue, not when Zolf has a knife in his hand. He takes his plate of food and a cup of tea and eats it sitting on the stairs where at least there is enough room for him to extend his elbows without hitting someone.

Outside, the storm is still going full force, with no end in sight. The windows rattle every now and then after a particularly strong gust, but inside, the lighthouse is snug and warm.

Wilde goes up to his room to find a book. He opens the door to find Carter looking through his things with an air that Wilde can only describe as “shifty”.

Wilde leans in the doorway and clears his throat pointedly. Carter freezes and then turns around, looking nonchalant.

“Can I help you find something?” Wilde asks pleasantly.

Carter just stares at him with a flat expression. “Nah.”

“Then I suggest you get some breakfast?” Wilde says. “It’s downstairs, and there’s plenty of it. The dwarf cooking it seems positively possessed, but it does taste wonderful.”

“Right. Breakfast.” Instead of moving, Carter stands there and then he looks Wilde up and down in an appraising sort of way. Wilde smiles — he is being _ogled_ by this pirate. It’s been quite some time since this has happened to him. He isn’t opposed to it. Carter isn’t bad looking, even if the mustache is slightly unfortunate and Wilde is pretty sure he stopped him in the middle of stealing Wilde’s things. Wilde has spent many a night in bed with people who have done far worse.

Wilde lets the door close behind him and goes to stand next to Carter, letting his shoulder brush against his. “How are you feeling?” Wilde asks.

“Much better,” Carter says. His eyes are somewhere around the open collar of Wilde’s shirt, at his throat.

“I just came in here for a book, that’s all,” Wilde says. He bends down and begins to examine his books one by one as if he doesn’t already have his entire bookshelf memorized, letting his finger trace across their spines. Carter does not move away. Wilde can feel Carter’s gaze at the back of his head, down his back, lingering on his ass. 

A thrill goes up Wilde’s spine. He’s missed the back-and-forth of a good old-fashioned flirtation, the feeling of being desired. He thinks guiltily of Zolf — but Zolf doesn’t _want_ him that way. He said so himself, even if that kiss was extremely confusing. Why shouldn’t Wilde let himself flirt with this pirate?

“Ah, it’s this one,” Wilde says, brightly, plucking a book off the shelf. He shows it to Carter. 

“Okay,” Carter says, his eyes flicking briefly to the book before falling again on Wilde’s lips.

Wilde smirks. “Not interested in literature, I take it?”

“Not really,” Carter says, and well, at least he’s honest. 

“Is there something on my face?” Wilde asks, teasing.

Carter’s eyes flick back up to Wilde’s eyes. He looks hungry. “I haven’t seen something like you in a long time, is all.”

“Something like me?” Wilde asks, playing oblivious. “What do you mean?”

“Something so soft,” Carter says, stepping forward so that he’s crowding Wilde up against his desk. He lifts his hand and drags his thumb across Wilde’s lower lip. “Something pretty.”

“Oh, my,” Wilde says with a sigh. He tilts his head, offering himself.

Carter does not disappoint. He takes Wilde’s mouth with a devouring kiss, and gets straight to the point with both hands sliding down and grabbing Wilde’s ass, pulling their bodies flush together. It seems that they’re skipping right past the flirtation and getting into the fucking. Wilde is disappointed, but unopposed — he winds his arms around Carter’s shoulders and grinds his hips forward, moaning prettily.

“Take me,” Wilde says into Carter’s ear, and then bites at his earlobe.

Carter, with a grunt, pushes Wilde onto the bed and gets on top of him. He opens the collar of Wilde’s shirt, kissing wetly at Wilde’s neck. Being manhandled hurts Wilde’s bruise, but he doesn’t care. Wilde undoes Carter’s belt, opening his trousers so that he can slide a hand inside, cupping Carter’s cock. Carter lets out a low groan and rocks forward into Wilde’s hand.

There is a knock at the door.

“Wilde, are you in there?” It is Zolf’s voice.

“Shit,” Wilde says, sliding out from underneath Carter, straightening his clothes as best as he can manage. He pulls open the door.

“What is it?” he says.

Zolf’s eyes go into the room, where Carter is still laying there, unashamed, his trousers still visibly open. And then his eyes go to Wilde. Zolf stares at him for a long moment, in which time Wilde becomes increasingly aware of how out-of-sorts he is, how his hair is probably mussed, his lips bruised, his face flushed.

“Weather’s let up for a bit,” Zolf says. There is no inflection in his voice at all. “If you wanted to go down to the caves now’s your chance.”

“Oh, yes,” Wilde says, hastily. He reaches into his closet and pulls on one of Zolf’s jumpers, hoping the high collar hides any marks that Carter has left on his neck.

Zolf turns around wordlessly and begins to head downstairs. Wilde follows after him. He can feel Carter staring at the back of his head as he leaves.

The wind outside feels good on his flushed face. It seems that the rest of the pirates have also taken advantage of the lull in the storm to go outside. They weave through several of them and go to the familiar path down the cliffside.

Looking out over the ocean, Wilde can see that the waves are still choppy, violent after the storm. The sky is relatively clear, but out in the distance, he can see a curtain of dark clouds, the shadow of faraway rain. The rest of the storm is on its way.

“It’s nice to be outside after all that, isn’t it?” Wilde says, after long minutes of tense silence.

Zolf grunts affirmatively.

Wilde frowns. He tries again, “Will you have enough supplies to feed everyone?”

“It’ll be fine,” Zolf says. “You’ve got other things to worry about.”

“What does that mean?” Wilde asks.

“You and that pirate, huh? Didn’t mean to break up the party.”

Wilde laughs. “A diversion, that’s all. Hardly a party.”

“So that’s how it is,” Zolf says, his voice flat.

Wilde looks at him. “Why does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” Zolf says. “It doesn’t matter to me at all.” He picks up the pace, walking so quickly over the beach that Wilde needs to speed up to stay with him, even with his longer legs.

“You did tell me you didn’t like sex that didn’t mean anything,” Wilde says. Wilde really hopes no one is nearby to hear this conversation. “You didn’t want that with me. So I don’t see why I can’t sleep with a pirate.”

“You can sleep with a pirate,” Zolf says. “You can sleep with six pirates if you really want. Sleep with all of them!”

“Fine!” Wilde says. “Perhaps I will! Thank you for your blessing!”

“You’re welcome!” Zolf says.

They reach the mouth of the cave. Once again, the wall of darkness hits Wilde. Zolf takes Wilde’s hand, and walks so quickly forward that he yanks WIlde forward with him.

“A little gentler, if you please,” Wilde says. The bruise on his side is now twinging painfully, more than it was before.

“Gotta get there before the storm comes back,” Zolf says.

“Yes, but I would prefer if my arm remained in its socket,” Wilde says.

Zolf doesn’t say anything, but he does ease up the pace a bit so that Wilde isn’t struggling quite so much. 

They reach the pools. It has been a while since Zolf has brought him here, and the pools are even more beautiful than Wilde remembers them, like the storms have somehow reinvigorated them. They glow like sapphires, filling the entire cavern with blue shifting light that creates patterns against the walls.

Zolf sighs. “All right, let’s get this over with,” he says.

“Might I remind you that _you_ were the one who insisted on healing _me_?” Wilde says.

“Yeah, because if I left it to you, you would just let yourself bleed to death without asking for help,” Zolf says.

“I—” Wilde blinks. “I am not — used to asking for help. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not used to _giving_ help.”

Zolf scowls. “Okay. Fine. I see your point.”

Wilde does a bad job of hiding a smile. Zolf sees this and huffs. “Stop smiling.”

“We are a pair, are we not,” Wilde says, grinning now.

“That’s nothing to _smile_ about,” Zolf says. “Just take off your shackles, Wilde.”

“So forward of you,” Wilde says. He unbuckles his shackles, setting them aside. Once again that weight is lifted from his shoulders. He lets out a happy sigh, tilting his head back.

“Feels nice, huh,” Zolf says.

Wilde hums, contented. “Yes, it does.” He sings under his breath, and the sound of bells fill the air, soft and beautiful. It’s so easy, like it was never gone at all. He finishes the spell with a final lingering note and finds Zolf looking at him with a warm smile, a softness in his eyes that Wilde has rarely seen. Wilde feels his heart turn over in his chest.

 _This is important_ , a voice in his head says urgently. _Pay close attention._

Zolf seems to remember himself, because he clears his throat, and the smile disappears. Wilde unbuttons his shirt and kneels so that Zolf will be able to reach him easier. Zolf steps forward and puts those rough, warm hands on him and chants words under his breath. With a flash of divine light, the ugly bruise fades away. Suddenly, it is much easier to breathe.

“Thank you, Zolf,” Wilde says. “It’s much better now.”

“Just wish I could do more,” Zolf says, gruff. Wilde knows that he doesn't mean his injury.

“You can’t blame yourself for my curse,” Wilde says quietly. “There’s no logic in that.”

“I just—” Zolf suddenly looks unsure. “There is one thing I haven’t tried. It’s a bit drastic. It involves calling on Poseidon directly.”

Wilde frowns. “But you’re a cleric. Don’t you call on Poseidon all the time?”

Zolf shakes his head. “Not like this. When I cast magic, I’m accessing power that Poseidon has already given me. This would mean asking him for a boon. This is what clerics do when they want a miracle. When they want him to stop a _hurricane_.”

“Oh,” Wilde says. “So then it’s very powerful.”

“Yeah,” Zolf says, and laughs bitterly. “And nothing that powerful comes without a price.”

“Like your legs,” Wilde says, figuring it out. “The price for your legs was that you had to give your service here, wasn’t it?”

Zolf sighs and nods. “So you can see why my relationship with Poseidon is… complicated.”

Wilde reaches forward and cups one of Zolf’s hands in his own. Zolf looks startled by this but he doesn’t draw away. “I would not want you to do anything on my behalf that you would regret, Zolf. Not for me.”

“You’re worth more than this,” Zolf says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Wilde doesn’t know what to say to that. He feels his expression go blank.

Zolf’s hand squeezes against Wilde’s. “All right. I’m going to try it.”

“If you’re sure,” Wilde says.

“I’m sure,” Zolf says. “You’ll have to get back into the pool for this.”

Wilde strips. He’s done this so many times before that it shouldn’t feel like any kind of momentous occasion, but it’s like something has changed between Zolf and him, some unspoken thing lying between them that wasn’t there before. He folds his clothes in a neat pile and then Zolf puts a hand on his arm to cast protection from the cold. 

“Thank you,” Wilde says. He lowers himself into the pool with a gasp. The energy filling the pools _does_ feel different from before, something primal and unbroken from the rage of the storm. Wilde clings to the rocks, taking a deep steadying breath.

Like he’s done many times before, Zolf steps onto the water, and he bends down to cup Wilde’s face in his hands.

“Poseidon, I call on you,” Zolf says. His voice echoes endlessly in the cavern, amplified, reflected back, until it’s like another voice is saying it alongside Zolf. Suddenly, it feels like there is a third presence filling the caverns, indescribably old and powerful. Wilde feels small and insignificant in the face of this presence.

Zolf says, “I have given you years of my service. I have been your loyal servant. I ask you for this boon. Lift the curse that has been laid on this man.”

Zolf’s eyes begin to glow with pale blue light. His voice turns harsh and booming as he continues to chant, as he continues to pray to Poseidon. Wilde is — frightened. He’s never seen Zolf like this. He’s almost unrecognizable. There is so much power coursing through him, through Wilde. It feels like he’s being scoured.

“Zolf,” Wilde says, putting a hand on one of the ones resting on his face. “It’s all right. We can stop.”

Zolf doesn’t seem to hear him. His grip on Wilde’s face tightens.

“Zolf, you’re — you’re hurting me,” Wilde says.

Zolf continues to chant, the string of words unbroken. Wilde barely hears them anymore. He shouts Zolf’s name, pulling at his hands. But whatever trance that Zolf has been caught in has given him an unnatural strength. Wilde can’t move Zolf’s grip on him at all. It’s tightened to an almost bruising force.

“Zolf, please, come back, please,” Wilde says desperately. 

There is a pause in the stream of chanting coming from Zolf. He stutters over the words, and then slows, each word coming more and more difficult, like he’s fighting it. Zolf begins to shake, his grip tightening even harder on Wilde.

“Zolf,” Wilde whispers. He says Zolf’s name again and again, and it seems to work. Zolf’s chanting slows, but that light is still turning his eyes into beacons, the same pale harsh light as the lighthouse, and Wilde just wants Zolf back. He can’t even cast magic — he has all his spellcasting back and he doesn’t even know what to do that would help Zolf break free of this. Blood begins to run from Zolf’s nose.

Wilde does the only thing he can think of. He lets go of the rocks completely, puts his arms around Zolf’s neck and pulls them both into the water.

At first, nothing happens. The light still continues to pour from Zolf’s eyes. Wilde can’t tell if his lips are still moving, if he’s still continuing to chant even while surrounded by water. He floats there, hoping that it has worked. A minute goes by. Wilde’s lungs begin to ache.

And then, Zolf blinks. His eyes open again, and it’s Zolf, his familiar blue eyes. He reaches out and grabs Wilde’s arm and kicks them both back up to the surface. 

Wilde gasps for air. Zolf pulls him out of the pool so that he’s resting against the cavern floor. As soon as Wilde has his breath back, he looks up to find that Zolf has retreated to the other side of the cavern. He has his hands covering his face. He’s shaking silently.

“Zolf,” Wilde says, still panting. “Can you — please say something.”

Zolf lowers his hands. His face is pale, and there are tears streaming down from his eyes and into his beard. Wilde notes with some relief that the light that was filling his eyes from before is still gone. “I—” Zolf says. “I’m sorry, Oscar.” His voice sounds normal now too, if rough with grief.

Wilde pulls himself out of the pool completely, dries himself with magic, and pulls on his shirt. He approaches Zolf. Zolf takes a step back.

“Don’t — don’t come near me right now, all right?”

“Zolf, what happened?” Wilde asks. No matter how frightening it was to see Zolf get taken over by whatever that was, it’s almost scarier now to see Zolf like this. 

“Poseidon wanted something in return for the boon,” Zolf says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what it was exactly, but he wanted a sacrifice. If you hadn’t stopped me, then...” Zolf trails off.

“I see,” Wilde says, swallowing down nausea. “Gods certainly are—”

“Cruel? Monstrous? More trouble than they’re worth?” Zolf says, his voice rising now, becoming angry.

Wilde tries to take another step towards him. This time Zolf lets him. Wilde kneels in front of him and he pulls Zolf into a wet hug.

Zolf makes a surprised noise and then he hugs Wilde back, his face pressing into Wilde’s shoulder. Wilde feels Zolf’s hand in his hair, tucking him close.

“You scared me,” Wilde says, in a hushed whisper. “Don’t do that again.” His heart is still pounding in his chest. Now that the shock and adrenaline is wearing off, all Wilde can think of is what might have happened. Zolf could have been lost to him.

Zolf pulls away, turning to wipe at his eyes. Wilde pretends not to see. “You should get back to the lighthouse,” Zolf says, thickly. “I’ll see you to the exit.”

“You’re not going back with me?” Wilde says. “The storm must be coming in.”

“I have to — there’s something I have to do first. I’ll be fine. Tell all those damn pirates to make sure all the doors and windows are shut. And don’t talk to Earhart more than you need to, yeah? I still don’t trust that she doesn’t know you used to be Meritocrat.”

“Just how long are you planning to be gone?” Wilde says, trying not to sound as anxious as he feels.

“I’ll be back later tonight. Maybe morning. Plenty of time for you to romance that pirate.”

Wilde scoffs. “That boy knows nothing of romance. Besides,” Wilde takes up Zolf’s hand and kisses his knuckles, looking directly at Zolf, “I’ll only be thinking of you the entire time anyway. I can never do my best work whilst I’m distracted.”

Zolf rolls his eyes. “Let’s focus on getting you out of this cave, all right?”

Wilde gets fully dressed, putting his shackles back on, and then Zolf takes him to the entrance of the cave. Outside, the storm is almost upon them, judging by how dark the sky has gotten. The wind has picked up again, biting cold and vicious. Wilde will have a miserable trek back to the lighthouse.

Zolf retreats back into the cave. “There’s plenty of potatoes and things for stew in the pantry. Don’t use up all the onions, I’m saving those for later.”

“You want _me_ to cook dinner?” Wilde says, alarmed.

“Don’t fucking burn the lighthouse down, Wilde,” Zolf says, and then he’s gone.

Wilde makes his way back up the cliffside and back to the lighthouse. The first drops of rain are beginning to fall. It’s going to be another rough storm.

It happens as he reaches the steepest part of the incline. He’s used to making this climb now, knows exactly where to place his feet, which parts to avoid because he knows them to be loose and unstable. He looks up and there is a huge rock tumbling down towards him.

Wilde scrambles out of the way just in time and the rock tears past him. He stands there, breathing heavily. Was that a coincidence? Had the storm just loosened a rock that happened to fall as he was climbing up? Wilde cranes his neck to look above him, at the top of the incline. He sees a figure dart back, too quick for him to catch who it is.

Fuck. Perhaps Zolf was right. Had Earhart figured out who he was? Was she the one who had pushed the rock at him? 

Wilde climbs up the incline as fast as he can before anything else can happen. He looks around. There is no one nearby. All the pirates have gone back inside, because rain has started to fall, the wind picking up its speed so that it’s a physical force that he has to walk against to get back into the lighthouse.

He’ll just have to watch his back from now on. It’s not like he’s not used to doing that.

  
  
  


Wilde doesn’t burn down the lighthouse, but it’s a close thing. By the time he’s finished making the stew, he’s already sliced his finger cutting vegetables, the rain is lashing violently against all the windows, and Zolf isn’t back yet.

Wilde doesn’t even eat. He pushes his stew around, watching all the pirates tuck into their food with a pit in his stomach. Wilde especially watches Earhart carefully, but she doesn’t seem to be acting any differently from usual, doesn’t even really look in his direction at all, talking with her crew, joking loudly with them over the sound of eating.

The only time she even looks at him is to ask where Zolf is.

Wilde shrugs. “He had some duties to take care of. For Poseidon.” He doesn’t mention the caves at all.

Earhart tilts her head. “You and him. Are you…?”

Wilde laughs. He can’t help it. There is a strange sadness building in his chest, a feeling of loss, and the only thing he can do is hide it with a careless laugh so that no one else sees it. “No, no we’re not,” Wilde says. “I don’t think Zolf really goes for that sort of thing.”

“You’d be surprised,” Earhart says, and then goes back to her crew.

Wilde sees the redheaded boy from earlier, Simons, staring at him in the kitchen. “More stew?” he asks, nervously. The boy holds out his plate and lets Wilde spoon more stew into it before ducking away again. 

After dinner, Wilde goes up to Zolf’s room. He finds Carter standing in the hallway, looking furtive. Wilde isn’t sure that Carter knows how to look anything _but_ furtive. Carter seems to be looking at Wilde in a very significant way, and Wilde realizes that they’re alone, once again. 

He does think about continuing what he started with Carter. It has been a long time since Wilde has slept with anyone, and perhaps what he needs to get over this persistent infatuation with Zolf is just to sleep with someone else. But Wilde can’t. He can’t make himself. He’s never felt this way, lonely and longing for something he can’t quite name, aching for a lost thing. He wants the same feeling he had when he held Zolf in his arms in the cave. He wants _that_.

He smiles and shakes his head at Carter in the hallway. Carter shrugs and then goes downstairs.

Wilde shuts himself away into Zolf’s room. He goes to the window, peering out over the restless sea. It’s difficult to see anything through the storm, just the occasional sweep of light from the lighthouse piercing through the thick rain, the intermittent flash of lightning. It is impossible to see, from here, if there is a dwarf standing in the waves. Wilde still tries.

He sighs and sits on Zolf’s bed, looking around the room. This is the first time he’s been in here without Zolf here as well. Even though Zolf is a naturally neat person, there is still something cluttered about it. Zolf has clearly lived here for a long time. Wilde can’t help snooping a little. 

Zolf’s closet is, of course, full of old jumpers, thick coats, working trousers that are thick and warm and lined with wool. Wilde breathes in that familiar smell of brine and woodsmoke. He finds Zolf’s beard supplies, which are surprisingly numerous, and a stack of old letters kept in his desk drawer. Wilde picks this up. It’s a thick stack, clearly containing letters that have been written over a long time. He thinks about reading them, but after a long moment of consideration, Wilde puts back the letters.

He is still powerfully curious about the things about Zolf’s past that he keeps hidden, but Wilde finds that he wants to hear those stories directly from Zolf.

And then he finds Zolf’s books. They are hidden away in a crate stuck in the corner. They are all Harrison Campbell romance novels.

“Oh, _Zolf_ ,” Wilde says, with delight, as he sorts through the books. They are all worn and well-loved. Zolf has clearly read these many times over, enough that the covers of some of them are coming loose. Wilde picks one up and flips through it. He’s never read a Harrison Campbell novel himself. He would never in his life think that Zolf carried a secret passion for him.

Well, it wasn’t like Wilde was going to be able to sleep tonight anyway, not with Zolf wandering out in the storm, and Earhart possibly plotting his death somewhere in the lighthouse. He lays on the bed and begins to read.

Zolf finds him like that, sitting in the middle of a stack of romance novels, wiping at his wet eyes.

“Are you _crying_?” Zolf says.

“Zolf!” Wilde says, scrambling to his feet. Zolf looks _exhausted_. The skin under his eyes is gray, he looks pale, and all of his clothes are soaked. 

“Are you all right?” Wilde asks. He helps Zolf out of his coat.

“Yeah,” Zolf says. He sounds almost hoarse, like he’s been yelling over the storm.

“Will you tell me what you were doing out there?” Wilde asks.

Zolf is silent. And then he shakes his head. “Not tonight, Wilde. I’m tired.” He gestures for Wilde to turn around so that he can change.

“Of course,” Wilde says and faces the wall. He casts about for something else to turn the conversation to. He decides he doesn’t want to tell Zolf about the rock yet, or about his suspicions about Earhart. He’s not sure if he imagined it, after all, and he doesn’t want to bother Zolf with it when it’s clear he’s so weary. Instead, Wilde says, “These books are quite good. They’ve taken me by surprise.”

“Oh, very funny,” Zolf says, sounding muffled.

“I’m serious,” Wilde says, in earnest. “The plot is never as derivative as I think it’s going to be and the character development is actually quite engaging. I can see why you love them so much.”

“You weren’t supposed to _find_ those,” Zolf says. Even without looking at him, Wilde can hear his frown. “Let alone read all of them in one sitting.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Wilde says. “You took ages getting back.”

“You should have gone to sleep. It’s late.”

“After that harrowing dinner? Absolutely not. I am never cooking again, Zolf.”

“Yeah, I saw the godsawful mess you left in the kitchen, you menace.”

“I had to wear an _apron_.”

“I’m sure that was very difficult for you,” Zolf says, dry.

Wilde turns around. Zolf is pulling a clean shirt on over his head. Wilde briefly catches sight of a broad hairy chest, faded sailor’s tattoos, the curve of his belly. Wilde can’t help but admire what he sees.

Zolf finishes pulling the shirt on and glares at Wilde when he catches him staring. “Can I help you with something, Wilde?”

“No,” Wilde says. He smiles. “Well, you could, but I think we said we weren’t doing that.” He begins to clear away the books, putting them back into the crate he found them in. He did make his way through an impressive amount of them in the time that he had, and he’s still thinking about reading the ones remaining. Perhaps Zolf will agree to lend them to him. 

Zolf scowls, yanking the covers back. “Are we back to talking about this? I thought you got this out of your system with that pirate. Surprised to find you in my bedroom, actually.”

“I turned him down,” Wilde says, offhandedly.

“So you do have standards,” Zolf says. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I propositioned you, didn’t I?” Wilde says.

He sees Zolf turn red. “Case in point.”

Wilde is willing to be mocked but he will not stand for Zolf mocking himself. He leans forward across the bed, and says, “Zolf, I will not have this. You may not want to sleep with me, and that’s — well, that’s fine, there are plenty of reasons for why one wouldn’t want to do that. But, and I hate to break this to you, you are quite the catch.”

It’s more sincere than he’s been in a long time. Wilde has had sincerity actively conditioned out of him. He’s been groomed to see it as weakness at worst, and severely unfashionable at best. But with Zolf, he’s found that if he’s not sincere, he always regrets it.

He sees Zolf process this, and then frown. “What do you mean?”

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “What do I mean about what? About you being a catch? I feel that’s self-explanatory.”

“Not that,” Zolf says. “The bit about there being plenty of reasons not to sleep with you.”

“Oh,” Wilde says. He laughs, although there’s no amusement in it. He feels suddenly cold, and he gets into the bed and pulls the covers over his lap. “Well, it’s not like there’s much to write home about. I’m cursed, fallen, and widely despised. I have a reputation for being unpleasant that I’ve actively cultivated. I’m simply not very likable, Zolf.”

“You’re plenty likable,” Zolf mutters. “Eventually.”

“It’s all right,” Wilde says, shrugging. “I’ve made my peace with it. I’m just saying, it’s not like I have lovers lining up to sleep with me, despite what my reputation is.”

There is a silence. Then, “I’ll sleep with you,” Zolf says. “I’ll sleep with you right now.”

“Excuse me?” Wilde says, in surprise, not sure if he has misheard, but Zolf is already taking off his shirt.

“Are you sure? You want to — oh, all right,” Wilde says, because Zolf has come to his side of the bed, has put a hand on the side of his face, and is tipping him down for a kiss.

Wilde immediately rises to it, opening his mouth and letting Zolf kiss him thoroughly, like they're just picking back up where they left off. He doesn’t know what has put Zolf in this sudden change of mind, but he’s not complaining — the way Zolf is kissing him with such intensity, such unimpeded passion. It’s utterly, completely different from being kissed by that pirate, Carter. Wilde has been so hungry for this, has wanted so badly to kiss Zolf again after that first disastrous time. He opens himself completely to Zolf and holds nothing back.

Zolf pushes him gently back onto the bed. Wilde wastes no time in touching him, the way he’s been wanting to touch him, running his hands over his chest, his back, reveling in all that broad muscle. Zolf’s beard scratches against the side of his face, and Wilde hums contentedly, rubbing his face into it.

Zolf snorts, drawing back. “What are you doing? You like my beard that much, do you?”

“I can’t grow one myself,” Wilde says. “Yes, I have always preferred it in my lovers. And yours is quite impressive, I have to say.” He runs his fingers through it.

“I think you might be easy to impress,” Zolf says, and kisses Wilde again. He begins to unbutton Wilde’s shirt, kissing his chest. Wilde helps him, wanting to get naked as soon as possible.

He’s still in disbelief that this is happening. He was sure that he would be stuck forever in this in-between with Zolf, a fruitless seduction and an endless flirtation, always wondering what it would be like. 

Zolf’s mouth finds a nipple, his tongue stroking over it hot and wet, and Wilde arches off the bed, letting out a pleased sigh. Finally, he thinks, finally he’ll know, and he’ll get Zolf out of his system for good, just like how he gets everyone he sleeps with out of his system. And then Wilde can go back to not _feeling_ like this all the time, can stop wondering whether Zolf cares about him as much as Wilde cares about Zolf, and—

Suddenly, it’s too much. It’s all far too much. 

“I’m sorry, I—” Wilde maneuvers himself out from under Zolf, and sits up. He blinks at the wall, trying to school his features. He doesn’t know why there are tears suddenly gathering in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Zolf asks.

“This doesn’t — I’m not usually like this,” Wilde says, inanely. He wipes hastily at his eyes.

“Gods, Oscar, what happened?” Zolf says, sounding alarmed now. He jerks a hand forward, as if to touch Wilde’s shoulder, and then hesitates. 

“I don’t know.” Wilde laughs, shakily. His eyes are still leaking. He presses the backs of his hands into them, as if to stem the flow. “Wonderful,” he says, wetly. “Another thing about me that’s broken, it seems.” He curls up into himself, so disgusted by his own emotions that he can’t even bear to take up space with them. 

“You’re not broken, Oscar,” Zolf says, his voice rough. “I’m sorry if I — shit.” Wilde feels a hand on his arm and then, unexpectedly, he’s being pulled into a hug.

“You’ve been hurt, that’s all,” Zolf says. His voice has gone so soft, so gentle. Wilde puts his face into Zolf’s neck and takes a deep, quavering breath, taking in the familiar scent of him. He doesn’t _want_ to get Zolf out of his system. He doesn’t want Zolf to get tired of him. He never wants to stop feeling like this. 

Of all the turns of fate Wilde’s life has taken lately, this one is especially cruel.

“Do you want me to sleep somewhere else?” Zolf asks him.

“No,” Wilde says, before he can even think of lying. “Unless, of course, you want to.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Zolf says. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Wilde lets out a breath, so pathetically grateful that he gets to have this at least. They lay down in the dark together, and Zolf adjusts them so that Wilde is still held in his arms, his body curling up against Zolf’s. It feels almost like something Wilde could have. It feels almost right. 

Maybe this could be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are dangers at the lighthouse, but it's not easy to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbelievably grateful to [newsbypostcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard) and [hawkcycle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkcycle). I couldn't get this chapter finished without their help!
> 
> Happy Wilde Week!

Wilde keeps to himself, mostly.

The lighthouse is overcrowded with pirates — at mealtimes it’s impossible not to feel jostled by the thick swarm of them. Wilde eats his meals in Zolf’s room, what seems like the only quiet place remaining, and he rapidly reads through Zolf’s collection of Harrison Campbell novels.

It’s difficult to avoid Zolf in such a small space, but by now Wilde has memorized Zolf’s schedule and so it’s easy to keep his distance, contrive of ways to leave a room every time Zolf enters it. When Zolf comes to bed at night, Wilde pretends to be asleep already. There are moments where he can tell that Zolf wants to bring it up, confront him about it. But Zolf doesn’t say anything. Wilde can't tell if he's disappointed by that or not.

And then, strange things start happening around Wilde.

It’s still raining, although the violence of the storm has passed. Wilde takes a walk around the lighthouse in a brief respite of clear weather. He’s just standing in the breeze, breathing in fresh air that doesn’t smell like unwashed pirate, when something falls beside him with a heavy crash, startling him. He turns to look, and finds one of the rusted metal parts from the lighthouse lying there, only a foot or two away from him, like someone heaved it out a window to try and hit him with it. When he looks up, he cannot see anyone.

Then, later, he’s walking down the lighthouse stairs and feels a hard shove in his back. He falls a few steps, banging his knee painfully, and thankfully manages to stop his fall before it gets truly disastrous. When he checks to look back up the stairs, there is no one there.

Feeling thoroughly unsettled, Wilde goes to the only place he can think of as being safe: Zolf’s room. He sits on the bed with his back against the wall and begins stressfully reading Harrison Campbell novels. 

“Haven’t seen you around,” Zolf says, stripping off his grease stained gloves. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No, I’m not!” Wilde says, fitfully. “For one thing, I cannot _believe_ that Calliope has not figured out that she is in love with Bernardo. And for another,” Wilde takes a deep breath before continuing, “I think someone is trying to kill me.”

Wilde laughs, meaning for it to sound careless. It comes out far too high-pitched for that. “So if I do disappear mysteriously, that’s probably the reason why.” 

Zolf has frozen. “What? What the hell happened?”

Wilde tells Zolf about the boulder, and about the incidents today at the lighthouse. Zolf’s expression goes stormy.

“Do you think it’s Earhart?” Wilde asks. “I feel like I’m losing my mind, to be honest, Zolf, and that’s not a pleasant feeling. I should know.”

Zolf considers this for a long time. “I don’t think it’s Earhart. Not that she doesn’t have plenty of reasons to want to kill you, this isn’t really her style. If she wanted to kill you, she wouldn’t waste time with rocks or pushing you down stairs. She’d have a pistol cocked to your temple straight away.” 

“Very reassuring!” Wilde says, panicked.

Zolf sighs. “Unfortunately, I think a lot of members of her crew would have good reason to hate Meritocrat guts right now.”

“Why?” Wilde asks. 

Zolf looks grim. “I finally got Earhart to tell me what happened to the rest of her crew. They got attacked by Guivres. A Meritocrat killed half their crew.”

Wilde swears. The last he heard of Guivres, she was in the middle of some uproar in Paris. Clearly Earhart had somehow gotten on her bad side. “But I’ve never even _met_ Guivres.”

“It doesn’t matter. These pirates probably lost a lot of friends to that dragon. One of them decides you’re somehow responsible for that, they’re going to want to take it out on you.”

“What should I do?” Wilde asks.

“You’ll stick with me,” Zolf says, determined. “These things always happen when you’re by yourself and no one else is nearby, right? I’ll keep an eye on you. And then when the storm clears, these pirates can get back to town and get out of our hair.”

Wilde shakes his head. “That’s — you don’t have to—”

“If you’re about to say that I don’t have to look out for you, I’ll toss you down the stairs myself, Wilde,” Zolf says.

“It won’t be too much trouble?” Wilde asks.

“Of course it’s going to be too much trouble,” Zolf grumbles. “You’ve always been too much trouble, but—”

“But?” Wilde says, hopefully.

Zolf scowls. “But I don’t want anything to happen to you. So I guess you’re _my_ trouble.”

“Oh,” Wilde says, taken aback. 

“Okay, stick close, I have to get back to work,” Zolf says. “Don’t touch anything, don’t light anything on fire, and for Poseidon’s sake, don’t try to actually _help_.”

“Aye aye, Captain Smith,” Wilde says, throwing a sloppy salute.

Zolf rubs a hand over his face. “And _never_ do that again.”

Zolf takes Wilde up to the oil room. It’s the first time Wilde has been up here. He did get curious enough to peek once, but all he saw were barrels of oil and other things to keep the lighthouse lamp lit, and he’d grown disinterested. The smell of oil is so thick in the air that even just standing there makes Wilde feel greasy.

Zolf continues through the oil room up to the beacon. Wilde looks around with some interest. The view is the first thing he notices. Through the glass he can look out over the sea, shrouded as it is with angry thunderclouds. 

“Out of the way, Wilde,” Zolf says. Wilde tries to press himself up against the wall to let Zolf squeeze past, but it’s much too tight a space. Zolf sighs heavily, takes Wilde by the hips, and maneuvers him into a corner. Wilde feels a guilty sort of thrill about it, the easy way that Zolf manhandles him, the sure grip of his hands.

“There’s not much room up here,” Wilde complains, but he fits himself into the corner anyway, tucking in his elbows so that Zolf can get past him. 

“There’s so much leg on you, you’re bound to get caught in something,” Zolf says. “Just stand there and don’t touch anything, Wilde.” Zolf opens some compartment in the lamp and begins to do something inside of it. Wilde can’t really see what exactly from this angle, even though he desperately wants to. He has a feeling that Zolf is quite good with his hands.

“So that’s it, then?” Wilde says, after a long silence.

“What’s it?” Zolf says, sounding distracted.

“Your solution to my imminent demise is really just to wait it out and hope for the best?” Wilde says.

“Well, it’s not like I can start wildly accusing people. It’s not my fault you have so many enemies.” Zolf ducks his head back out of the compartment and throws Wilde a look. “The pirates will be gone soon anyway.”

Wilde rubs his hands up his arms, feeling a sudden chill. “It just feels — I can’t shake this feeling of dread, you know?”

“Understandable, considering you might die at any moment,” Zolf says.

Wilde scoffs. “Your concern is overwhelming.”

Zolf looks at him again, this time brandishing a wrench. “Hey, I’m doing my best to save your neck. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be sticking around here any longer, right?”

“What does that mean?” Wilde says, alarmed, but Zolf has gone back into the compartment and Wilde cannot see his face.

“It means... I can’t fix your curse, right? We both know that. So I assume you’ll be leaving then.” Zolf says it so casually, like it means nothing to him.

Wilde breaks the rule. He steps out of the corner where Zolf put him and strides up to Zolf, tugging him out of the compartment so that he can see Zolf’s face. Zolf stands up straight, but he avoids Wilde’s gaze. 

“I’m — Zolf, I’m not going to leave just because you can’t break my curse. That’s not why I’ve stayed here.”

“Then why have you stayed?” Zolf asks, looking at him properly now, his chin raised. “Why not go find someone out there who can break your curse? Someone who actually knows what they’re doing and doesn’t resent the god they serve with every fiber of their being?”

Wilde can barely breathe. “I’ve stayed because — because I like it here.”

“You’re hiding,” Zolf accuses. His eyes are the hardest that Wilde has ever seen them. “You don’t want to go back out there, do you?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not why I—” Wilde shakes his head, his mind in turmoil. He has never had any problem saying whatever frivolous thought that crossed his mind, but the one time he wants to tell Zolf the truth, to bare his soul, the words will not come. He takes a breath. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to leave, that’s all. If you’re sending me away, then that’s—”

“I’m not sending you away,” Zolf says. He turns back to the compartment, reaching inside with his wrench.

Wilde makes a frustrated noise. “Then what about you? Why have _you_ stayed? If you resent Poseidon so much, why not just leave?”

“It’s not that simple, Wilde,” Zolf says sharply. “I’m a cleric. You don’t just _stop worshipping_ your god. I’d lose my legs. I’d lose my magic.”

“I don’t have my magic either,” Wilde reminds him. “I make do. And there are other options if you lose your legs that don’t involve binding contracts with demanding sea gods.”

Zolf makes a noncommittal noise, returning to his work. 

“Maybe you’re hiding too,” Wilde says, quietly.

Wilde sees Zolf’s shoulders tense, and he knows he is right. “Shut up,” Zolf says.

“You’re cross with me,” Wilde says. He has been expecting this, so it’s no surprise. There was always going to be a day when Zolf would tire of him. It shouldn’t _matter_ what Zolf thinks of him, of course. But it does. Of course it does.

“I’m not cross, I’m busy,” Zolf says, shortly. “Go stand in your corner.”

“I’m not a child,” Wilde says.

“A child, at least, would know to do what they were told,” Zolf says, and there’s such a hard line of authority in his voice that Wilde’s back straightens without him meaning for it to and he feels another embarrassing thrill go up his spine. He feels himself go red. Wilde turns away and marches to the corner before Zolf can see.

Wilde has _never_ had it this bad. He doesn’t understand how Zolf can just say things, touch him, and Wilde feels immediately like folding at the knees and putting himself at his mercy.

Instead of saying anything else and making a further fool of himself, Wilde sits on the ground, his knees drawn up. He tries not to think of anything at all, but it’s difficult not to watch Zolf work. His sleeves are rolled up so that Wilde can see his strong tattooed forearms, and there’s a streak of grease on the side of his face. He’s gorgeous like this. 

Wilde twists his hands in his lap. He doesn’t know why he can’t just bed Zolf and be done with it. He had that chance. Zolf offered himself up to him and everything. If Wilde had gone through with it, perhaps this would all be done with, and Wilde would be free of this inconvenient infatuation.

But that’s not what he wants. Wilde wants a thing he can barely even _name_. He wants to _belong_ to Zolf.

Wilde sighs, resting his forehead on his arms. So the poets were right after all. This really was an agony of the truest kind. 

He doesn’t realize that Zolf has stopped working until Wilde hears him say, “You all right? Don’t fall asleep here. There are spiders.”

Wilde raises his head to see Zolf looking over at him. He’s backlit by the beacon, looking ethereal and gods-graced and so fucking beautiful that Wilde sucks in a breath.

“What’s wrong?” Zolf says, looking concerned.

Wilde shakes his head. “Nothing. Just wondering why you put me in this corner, specifically, if you knew there were spiders in it. Are you trying to have me killed?”

Zolf’s beard twitches and his eyes crinkle a little at the edges. Wilde knows by now that this means he is hiding a smile. “The spiders are harmless.”

“That’s just what they want you to think,” Wilde mutters, which doesn’t even make any _sense_. So it’s come to this. Wilde has been reduced to speaking utter nonsense, on account of this infuriating dwarf.

Wilde stands up. He does it a little too quickly, so his vision briefly swims, and he sways a little, feeling lightheaded. He hasn’t eaten anything today, he realizes.

Zolf is back to looking concerned. “You _sure_ you’re all right?”

Wilde presses a hand to his head, wincing credibly. “You know, I am feeling a bit of a headache,” he lies. “Think I might go back to your room and lie down for a bit if that’s all the same to you.”

“Oh,” Zolf says. “Are you sure? I can come with you.”

Wilde waves him off. “I can find my own way.”

“You do remember that someone has been trying to kill you, right?” Zolf says, incredulously.

“I would hate to tear you away from this delightfully messy hard work of yours. All this grease and grime is quite a good look on you,” Wilde says, before he can think better of it.

Zolf flushes. “You’re fucking impossible, you know that?”

Wilde flashes him a grin. “Yes, I know.”

Zolf scowls. “Fine. Go straight there, all right? I’ll check on you when I’m done here. Don’t go off wandering, now. And take this.” He hands Wilde the wrench he is holding.

Wilde stares at it in his hand. It’s slightly oily. “What is this for?”

“Self defense,” Zolf says. “Someone comes after you, whack ‘em with it.”

Now it is Wilde’s turn to look incredulous. “A wrench, Zolf? Really? I _can_ take care of myself. I didn’t work with the Meritocrats for nothing, you know.”

“Get out of here, Wilde,” Zolf says good-naturedly.

Wilde huffs at him, and leaves before he can say anything else. Zolf gets under his skin, that much is clear. 

He heads down the narrow steps back to the living quarters. This ceaseless yearning is too unseemly, Wilde has decided. He’ll just go to Zolf’s room and get himself together and figure out exactly how to hide everything he’s feeling behind a neat little mask and never look at it again. 

Wilde is so lost in his own thoughts that he barely pays attention as he walks back to Zolf’s room, and he certainly doesn’t notice the quick shadow approaching him from behind. When there is a sharp pain in the back of his head and a sudden darkness, it takes him completely by surprise.

  
  


  
  


Wilde wakes up in the caves.

His head pounds, but Wilde doesn’t make a sound. He stays as quiet as he can. His hands are bound behind his back. He tests the knots carefully. This isn’t the first time he’s woken up all tied up, but from what he can tell, these knots are quite good. He swears silently. Curse pirates and their proclivities for knot-tying. 

He moves his head as slowly as he can manage so that he can see the rest of the cavern. He’s at the pools, can see the familiar blue glow of them. And standing there is Simons, the pirate. He is turned away from Wilde, bent over the pools, seeming to be entranced by their deep shifting blue.

As quietly as Wilde can, he begins to move away. It is a slow, arduous process, taxing to the extreme. His muscles are very soon burning, sweat beading at his forehead, and he’s barely made any progress. But if he can get to that jagged rock not far away, perhaps he can cut his bonds and—

He must make a noise, because Simons straightens and turns to look at him. He is backlit by the blue of the pools, and Wilde can’t read all of his expression, but what little he can make of it chills him to his bones.

This boy hates him. This boy that Wilde has never met before, has barely spoken to — there is undiluted hatred in his face.

“Simons, right?” Wilde says. Perhaps if getting free is not an option, he can talk to this boy, get him to listen to reason. “Your name is Simons?”

Simons nods, a jerking aborted movement. Wilde notices that his chest is rising and falling with an agitated speed.

“Listen, Simons, whatever it is you think I’ve done, I haven’t—”

“Guivres killed my dad,” Simons says.

All the breath leaves Wilde. “Oh,” he says, stupidly.

“I heard about you,” Simons says. “The famous Oscar Wilde. Meritocrat pet, they said.” There is color rising in Simons’ face, turning him blotchy and angry. He is almost spitting the words out.

Wilde winces. Pet. Of course. He’s no stranger to the kinds of insults separatists have thrown against those who have worked for the Meritocrats, who have benefited from their rule. But to hear it now, after all this time, from this boy who clearly hates him — it is a slap to the face.

“I’m sorry about your father, Simons,” Wilde says, making his voice calm and reasonable. Even to his own ears, it sounds insincere. Who is he really fooling? Wilde has never been able to be anything but condescending, and cruel. He was never meant for _kindness_. And that’s what he desperately needs to give this boy right now. If only Zolf were here.

Wilde puts away this thought before it can deluge him. He straightens himself as much as he can, against his bonds. Simons watches him distrustfully. 

“I know you hate me,” Wilde says. “After what the Meritocrats have taken from you, I don’t deny you have reason. But I’m not that person anymore. I don’t serve them anymore. I’ve — I’ve changed, I’ve—” Wilde stammers to a stop. _Has_ he changed? Has he really become someone different? Wilde has always been sure that he was immutable. Against tide and trend, Oscar Wilde would remain Oscar Wilde, either hated or loved. Has all this time living at this lighthouse changed him, truly?

His hesitation does not go unnoticed. Simons’ eyes narrow. “You took their coin, you sung their praises,” he accuses. “My father went up in flames because of them. Every Meritocrat scum I see, I’m going to make sure they pay for that.”

Simons marches forward. There is a knife in his hand. 

“You don’t want to do this,” Wilde says. He feels so damned _helpless_. “Simons.” His voice is barely a whisper at this point. 

He closes his eyes. There is sharp steel biting at his throat, a splitting pressure, and Wilde wonders, frantically, what it will feel like to bleed out.

Then, Wilde hears a shout. A familiar voice. Wilde’s eyes open again. Zolf!

“Get away from him!” Zolf bellows, his voice thunderous, filling the cavern immediately. The air seems to vibrate with it, as if an invisible force is carried with it.

The knife withdraws from Wilde’s throat. Simons stands up straight to face Zolf. Wilde turns to look as well, and what he sees stuns him. Zolf is wearing _armor_. He’s carrying a _trident_. He looks like something out of a painting, a hero out of the songs. Wilde, in awe of him, forgets the fear, forgets the pain at his throat. 

Simons doesn’t move. There is a desperation to the way his gaze keeps flicking between Zolf and Wilde. 

“I’m not—” Simons says, then bites off his words. “I’m not going back. I can’t — not while—” He looks at Wilde again, and then Wilde knows what will happen next. It’s a strange moment of double vision. He sees the knife driving towards him even before Simons’ arm has begun to move.

Wilde feels the harsh cold of the steel before he feels the pain. Simons cuts his face open.

Wilde must scream. He doesn’t remember. He can’t see anything through the pain, the fire splitting open his face. But he hears it when Zolf launches himself at Simons. The knife clatters to the ground, and Wilde lets out a sob of relief. He opens his watering eyes, blinking through the pain. 

He watches them fight, even through his swimming vision. Simons, being human, has the advantage in height, although it’s clear that Zolf is stronger, and he’s armed with his trident. They scuffle, neither one quite gaining the upper hand at first. Then Zolf uses his trident to push Simons back, and Simons loses his footing on the uneven cavern ground. 

Simons falls into the pool with a loud splash. Zolf kneels over the pool, and at first, Wilde thinks that he will pull Simons out, but instead he takes hold of Simons’ shoulders and he pushes him further into the water.

Wilde watches with horror as Zolf begins to drown Simons.

“Zolf,” Wilde whispers, even though his face _burns_ with the effort, even though Wilde’s lips won’t work properly against the wound. He still says Zolf’s name.

Zolf lifts his head to look up at Wilde from across the pool. His eyes are lit. Just like before. Bright and burning and nothing recognizable of Zolf in them. Wilde grabs at the knife, uses it to cut open his bonds, and he gets to his feet, his gut churning with horror. It had happened again. It was Poseidon. He was drowning Simons _through_ Zolf. 

Wilde stumbles forward, determined. Poseidon would not have Zolf. Wilde could not _let_ him have Zolf. He falls to his feet at Zolf’s side, his arms going around Zolf. He holds him tightly, desperately, blood pouring out of his wound, running hot down the side of his jaw, his neck.

“Zolf,” Wilde whispers. “Enough. You’ll kill him.” He can barely say the words. His face feels like it’s been torn apart. He just holds Zolf tighter, and hopes that it is enough.

He feels Zolf move. Zolf’s hold on Simon’s shoulders loosens, and Simons kicks back up to the surface, gasping in the air, his eyes full of sharpened terror. He climbs out of the pool, sagging limply against the rocks. 

That is when Earhart and her crew get there.

  
  
  


They take Simons into custody. 

Earhart apologizes for Simons, says something about leaving the lighthouse as soon as the storm lets up. Wilde barely hears any of it. His eyes are on Zolf. That divine light has faded from his eyes, but there’s still something cold and steely in his expression, no warmth in it at all, like Zolf has drawn into himself. Wilde finds himself taking one of Zolf’s hands in his own, gripping too tightly, hoping that Zolf will yell at him about it. But Zolf is quiet.

“This isn’t how I meant to repay you for your hospitality,” Earhart says. Behind her, two of her crew have Simons in a firm grip. Simons doesn’t look up, his wet hair curtaining his face.

“Just get him out of here,” Zolf says, his voice a low growl.

Earhart looks to Zolf, then to Wilde, still kneeling at his side, holding his hand. She nods, and backs out of the cavern. They are left alone. 

“Zolf, look at me, please,” Wilde says. There is blood in his mouth, but this is important. He has to know that it’s Zolf. He puts a hand on Zolf’s cheek and turns his face towards him. There is a moment of unrecognition, and then Zolf seems to come back to himself. He sees Wilde for the first time, his eyes widening as he takes in the wound on Wilde’s face.

“Fuck,” Zolf says, his voice shaking. He surges forward, and Wilde loses his balance, falling back on the cavern floor. Zolf’s hands are on him, feeling him over, and Wilde is confused for a moment before he realizes that Zolf is looking for the key to his anti-magic shackles.

“The left pocket,” Wilde says, breathless, laying his head back against the cool cavern floor. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, the pain splitting his head is almost too much to bear. He feels faint.

Zolf finds the key, and he takes Wilde’s ankles in his hands and unlocks the shackles. Wilde feels that familiar _opening_ in his magic again. As soon as the shackles are off, Zolf tosses them away so that they clatter distantly against the cavern floor.

“I’ll need those later,” Wilde reminds him. Zolf ignores this.

“You idiot,” Zolf says, his voice a low angry growl. He kneels over Wilde, looking absolutely livid, and Wilde would smile at him if he weren’t in so much pain. “You bloody idiot.”

Zolf puts his hand over the wound on Wilde’s face and Wilde cries out, his back arching up as Zolf begins to heal him. 

“Hold still, damn you,” Zolf says, and pins Wilde to the floor with his other arm, keeping him from moving. Wilde clutches at him, but he can’t do anything except try not to whimper.

It is excruciating — Zolf’s magic feels different now, something of the violence of a tempest in the way he seals Wilde’s wound closed. Wilde’s vision goes dark for a moment before clearing. 

And then when it is done, when Zolf finishes his healing spell, his hand slips from Wilde’s cheek, his fingers falling to Wilde’s lips, tracing them in a way that is almost reverent. Wilde parts his lips instinctively. His wound doesn’t hurt anymore, but he can still feel the new skin stretching awkwardly.

“I thought,” Zolf says, “I had lost you.”

“I thought I had lost you too,” Wilde says in a whisper. 

In response, Zolf takes Wilde’s hands in his own, healing the raw skin on his wrists from where the ropes cut into them. He heals one wrist, then the other, slow and deliberate and methodical, like this is a ritual he is enacting upon Wilde’s body. 

All of Wilde’s focus is pulled to the press of Zolf’s thumb into the thin skin of the inside of his wrists. He is certain that Zolf will be able to feel his suddenly racing pulse.

“Where else are you hurt?” Zolf asks.

Wilde can feel his throat stinging where Simons’ blade cut into it. Eyes locked onto Zolf’s, he tips his chin up, baring his neck for Zolf to see. He hears Zolf take in a sharp breath. Wilde feels like he’s thrumming with the weight of Zolf’s eyes on him. He feels powerful. Wilde has not felt powerful in a very long time.

“I hate that he did this to you,” Zolf says, furiously, and he drags his hand down to Wilde’s neck, his fingers wrapping partially around his throat. 

Wilde _wails_ , the initial pain of the touch being soothed immediately by a staggering wave of healing energy that has him screwing his eyes shut, overwhelmed by sensation. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s been set alight. Wilde tilts his hips up as he writhes, his crotch finding the side of Zolf’s hip, and he recognizes distantly that he is getting hard. It takes a monumental effort not to start grinding against Zolf’s hip. Zolf seems to be too engrossed in his healing spell to notice.

The wound seals, and again Zolf’s healing energy leaves him. Wilde finds he is hungry for it, feels its absence keenly. Zolf’s breathing has grown harsh. He moves his hand to the side of Wilde’s face now, the uninjured portion, and Wilde leans into the touch. His face feels flushed, and Zolf’s hands are cool in comparison.

“You came for me,” Wilde says, breathless. 

“I looked for you everywhere and I couldn’t find you,” Zolf says. His eyes go distant. “And then Poseidon — Poseidon let me know. I was so _angry_ when I saw Simons standing over you. It was so easy to let Poseidon in — let him — oh _gods_.” Zolf is shaking now, his eyes wide with an expression that Wilde has not seen on him before, a kind of blank horror. 

“I almost drowned him,” Zolf says. He pulls away from Wilde, and sits down heavily.

Wilde sits up. “That wasn’t you,” Wilde says fiercely. “I _saw_ it, Zolf. You weren’t in control then.”

Zolf doesn’t say anything. He looks down at his legs, folded beneath him, and he takes three deep breaths. Wilde sees the moment when he pushes the panic away, wills his composure back. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Zolf says, even and measured and devoid of any emotion. He looks around at the empty cavern, at the luminous blue pools. Wilde no longer finds them beautiful. “I don’t want to do this here.” 

“All right,” Wilde says, quietly. He gets to his feet, and then he helps Zolf to his. “My shackles,” he says, remembering. He looks around the cavern, but cannot find them, his eyes not able to penetrate the darkness at the edges of the room.

“Oh, right,” Zolf says, sounding sheepish. He goes to a corner of the cavern, and bends down to pick them up. Wilde holds out his hand, expecting Zolf to hand them back to him, but instead, Zolf kneels in front of Wilde and puts them back on himself. His fingers briefly brush against the bare skin of Wilde’s ankles and that touch _shouldn’t_ send shivers up Wilde’s spine, but it _does_.

Wilde clears his throat. “Back to the lighthouse then? Before Earhart and her crew stage an uprising? I don’t know about you, but I would prefer not to be ambushed at the door by a horde of bloodthirsty pirates who have it out for ex-Meritocrat agents. I think I’ve had enough peril for one day, thank you. It does get tiring after a while to not know if you’re going to make it to the end of the day alive or not.” Gods, he’s talking too much. Wilde snaps his mouth shut.

Zolf, though, barely seems to hear him. He nods distractedly at Wilde, takes up his trident, and walks into the darkness, leading Wilde back out of the cavern. Wilde follows.

  
  
  


Outside, the weather is clear, nothing but a light drizzle to show that the storm was even there in the first place. The first weak rays of sunlight are beginning to slip through the clouds by the time they reach the lighthouse. 

Inside, they find that Earhart and the rest of the pirates are packing their things up, getting ready to set off.

“The roads will still be in rough shape,” Zolf tells her.

“It’s all right, I think my crew deserves a little mud after the trouble they’ve caused you,” Earhart says sharply. Behind her, Wilde sees several pirates wince. It’s clear that in their absence, Earhart has given her crew quite an earful for what has happened. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“You have,” Zolf says, shrugging. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to die in a mudslide.”

Earhart grins at him. “Death by mudslide. Well that would definitely be an ironic end for me, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Zolf says, flatly.

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Earhart tells him. She goes over to Zolf and puts a hand on his arm. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Then, for some reason, she turns her gaze to Wilde. There is something assessing in the look she gives him. Wilde forces himself to keep eye contact with her. Earhart smiles.

“Zolf’s a good one,” Earhart tells Wilde. “Look after him.” There is a challenge in it.

Wilde is so surprised by this that can’t do anything but blink at her, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“All right, now you’ve _really_ overstayed your welcome,” Zolf mutters. “Get out of here, Amelia, before I kick you out myself.”

“All right, all right, I’m gone,” Earhart says, and she turns back to her crew. 

In time, they finish their preparations, and head out, leaving the lighthouse quiet once again. It feels strange to not hear the clamor of pirates.

Zolf heads upstairs. Wilde trots after him. He has to take the stairs two at a time to catch up.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Wilde says brightly, as they come into Zolf’s room. He sits on the bed, bouncing a little.

Zolf grunts and begins to unlatch his armor. Wilde watches shamelessly, fascinated by the process of it, the careful and practiced way that Zolf’s fingers find every buckle and clasp, laying each segment in a neat pile. Piece by piece, Zolf goes from looking to a battle-fierce hero to the Zolf that Wilde is familiar with — worn woolen jumper and tired eyes and rumpled hair that Wilde wants badly to run his fingers through.

“You should leave too, you know,” Zolf says.

Wilde stops admiring Zolf’s shoulders and flicks his eyes back to Zolf’s face. “Leave?” he says, confused. 

“Go back to London.”

At first, he is convinced that Zolf is joking, and begins to smile, ready to tease Zolf about it. But then he sees the look on Zolf’s face, the way he won’t quite meet Wilde’s eyes, and the smile slips from his face.

Zolf continues on. “I’m friends with one of the fishermen in town. I’ll ask him to set you up with a room to stay in while you make plans to travel back to London. He’s a good sort, he’ll treat you right.”

“Zolf, wait,” Wilde says, alarmed. “What is this about? What have I done _now_?”

“It wasn’t what _you_ did,” Zolf says, and now he begins to sound angry. “It’s what _l_ did. What I almost did.”

“This is about Simons,” Wilde says. “Zolf, you didn’t drown him.”

“Those were my hands holding him under the water, Wilde. It was _my_ head Poseidon filled with all that fucking rage.” Zolf sits down on the bed, facing away from Wilde. “I have to figure this out, and I can’t have you here while I do that.”

“So you’re sending me away,” Wilde says. “Zolf, you don’t have to do this by yourself. I can help you.” He puts a hand on Zolf’s shoulder.

Zolf shrugs off Wilde’s hand and looks at him sharply. “How would you help?”

Wilde clenches his fists, sets his jaw. “Well, for starters, I could convince you to leave. Come _with_ me, Zolf. You could leave this place behind. You don’t have to keep serving Poseidon.”

Zolf snorts. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, dismissively.

“You think I don’t know anything about being beholden to someone you don’t trust anymore?” Wilde says, bitterly. “I do know, Zolf. I know there are consequences.” Wilde feels the weight of his shackles against his ankles, feels the newly healed wound on his face. He’s led a life of mistakes.

Wilde adds, quietly, “I know that sometimes the consequences are worth it.”

Zolf looks at Wilde, then, and Wilde sees a strange emotion cross Zolf’s face. It is _hope_ , Wilde realizes. He holds his breath, unable to look away from it. He can feel the strength of it, Zolf’s faith that perhaps things can turn out better than what they are. 

But it is only for a moment. Wilde sees it when Zolf’s doubt returns. Zolf’s expression goes shuttered again.

“I’m not leaving, Wilde,” Zolf says, a cold finality to it. “Don’t ask me again.”

Wilde feels hollowed out. He stands up and walks to the door. “Then since my room has been newly vacated, I’ll spend the night there. Good night, Zolf.”

“Great,” Zolf says. “Do that. Good night.”

Wilde would love to say he doesn’t slam the door on his way out, but if he did, he’d be lying. He goes to his room and begins to throw things furiously into his trunk, not even bothering to fold anything or protect anything from wrinkles. Curse Zolf for his stubbornness and his damn _pride_ and his stupidly attractive forearms and for making Wilde believe he could have a _home_ here and— 

Wilde slams his trunk shut with an angry snarl and he sits down on the lid and sobs into his hands. It is a long time before he crawls into his bed, too miserable to even undress.

  
  
  


Wilde leaves the lighthouse in the morning. Zolf doesn’t see him off. As Wilde gets into the carriage, he thinks he sees a figure standing in the beacon room of the lighthouse, silhouetted by light. He blinks and it’s gone.

He is worried that the coachman will make a snide comment about his departure, but he seems to sense something in Wilde’s expression, because he barely says anything to him at all.

Wilde feels numb. His eyes are sore from weeping. He barely remembers anything of the ride back to the village.

“The pirates, are they in town?” Wilde asks, as he disembarks. The village is just as small and miserable as he remembers, but he doesn’t see any sign of Earhart and her crew.

The coachman shakes his head as he hoists Wilde’s trunk off the carriage. “Nah, they’re camping out in the commons. No room for that many people here. You’re lucky you got the one spare room available.”

Wilde laughs bitterly. “Yes. Very lucky, indeed.”

The fisherman and his wife _are_ welcoming. Wilde’s face begins to hurt from smiling at them. He only wants to be left alone, but they insist on cooking him a hot meal after his journey. It all tastes like ash in his mouth.

But at last, they leave him to rest in his room. It is only a small attic room, comfortable enough, but nowhere near as snug as his room in the lighthouse. He begins to unpack slowly, absently, barely conscious of each movement as he makes it. He puts away his clothes and then he reaches the bottom of the trunk and finds one of Zolf’s jumpers.

Wilde lifts this out slowly. He must have packed it without thinking — it hadn’t even occurred to him to return it to Zolf. He has been wearing it for so long, comforted by its heavy warm wool, that he forgot it wasn’t his to take.

There is no one there to see him put his nose to it and breathe it in. But it’s no use. It doesn’t smell like Zolf anymore.

  
  
  


Wilde writes a letter to Curie. 

He doesn’t tell her exactly what resulted in his departure from the lighthouse, but lets her know that he would like a posting elsewhere. He finishes writing it, and slips it into an envelope and addresses it, and then he stares at it in his hands. It takes everything in him not to tear it to shreds. Instead, he slips it into the pages of a book he never reads, and stuffs it in the bottom of a drawer.

Something in him isn’t ready to run away quite yet. Wilde has always been too stubborn for his own good. 

  
  
  


A week goes by. 

The pirates are still in town. The word is that Earhart is in the middle of chartering a ship. He doesn’t see her, but occasionally he’ll see other members of her crew doing odd jobs around town for coin — fixing roofs, mending fishing nets, even minding the cattle. It does give him a certain amusement to see fearsome pirates reduced to tugging recalcitrant cows across the town square. Thankfully, he does not see Simons. It seems the pirates are keeping a close eye on him.

Wilde takes long walks to the cliffs, the cold air biting at him now that he refuses to wear Zolf’s heavy jumper. He feels as grey as the landscape these days, can’t help feeling like some vitality of his has been left behind in that lighthouse. He can still _see_ the lighthouse too, the distant spire of it, standing tall and straight, its constant beacon shining in the dark. 

Wilde always spends too long staring at the lighthouse, until he’s cold and shivering, until the fisherman and his wife scold him for coming back with blue fingers, hands shaking too violently to even hold a cup of tea straight.

If he’s not out on a walk, he spends his time locked in his room, barely eating. He can tell that the fisherman and his wife are worried about him, but they’re much too kind to bully him into eating. Not like Zolf, who would have kicked down Wilde’s door by now and sat on his chest until he agreed to eat a full meal.

Wilde has never missed anyone this much. He’s almost shocked at himself by it, by the strong pull of this absence. He even thinks of writing poems about it, but the verses won’t come.

  
  
  


Amelia Earhart comes to visit him.

He’s coming back from one of his long walks, hands shoved into his pockets, his breath steaming in the air, to find Earhart leaning against the fence surrounding the fisherman’s house, waiting for him.

“Earhart,” he says, eyebrows raised.

“Hello,” she says.

He draws himself up, covering his surprise with a smirk. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She just looks at him. “I thought I told you to look after him, dragon-pet.”

Wilde deflates. “Is that what this is about?”

Earhart crosses her arms. “I thought to myself, well at least Zolf finally has someone in his life to _annoy_ him out of hiding. Good for him. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were staying here and he’s still stuck in that damn lighthouse. Getting ready to run back to London, are you?”

Wilde frowns. “He didn’t want me.”

Earhart rolls her eyes. “And of course Zolf Smith always knows what he wants,” she says.

“Would you like to come in?” Wilde says, sharply. “Have a cup of tea?”

Earhart barks a laugh. “No, thanks.”

“Ah, so then you just came here to tell me off.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Earhart says, with a grin. 

“Lucky me,” Wilde says, dry.

“No wonder you and Zolf got along so well,” Earhart mutters. “You’re both idiots.”

Wilde rubs at his temple. He’s starting to get a headache. “Excuse me?”

Earhart’s expression turns serious. “Go back to him, Wilde.”

“How many times must I tell you?” Wilde says, growing angry. “Zolf turned me out. He told me to leave. He doesn’t want me there.” Wilde’s throat closes up — he can’t speak anymore. He turns his face away, furious at himself, furious for _caring_ this much and for letting it show. He used to be stronger than this, didn’t he?

Earhart stabs a finger at him. She may be tiny, comparatively, but Wilde still takes an involuntary step back. “Listen up, dragon-pet. If I know anything about Zolf, it’s that he’s stubborn as all hell and he’s terrible at knowing what’s best for himself. He’s been miserable for years in that lighthouse, serving Poseidon. It’s time for him to leave. Or I’m worried I’ll come back and it’ll be him floating in those pools.”

Wilde goes cold all over. He thinks about Zolf stepping into one of the pools, giving himself over to Poseidon entirely. “And you think I can get him to do that?” Wilde says, his voice barely a whisper.

“I think, for his sake, you have to try,” Earhart says.

“I—” Wilde takes in a shaky breath. “All right.”

“And for what it’s worth,” says Earhart, with a grin, “sorry my man almost killed you.”

This takes Wilde by surprise. He laughs, and then covers his mouth in consternation. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not half as terrifying as your reputation led me to believe.”

Earhart makes a face. “Don’t let any of my pirates hear you say that. I already have a hard enough time getting them to do their duties.”

“You’re a good captain, Amelia Earhart,” Wilde says. 

A shadow crosses Earhart’s face. Her shoulders stiffen, then slump as she lets out a heavy sigh. “Tell that to the men I lost. Tell that to the survivors who had to mourn them.”

“Your guilt doesn’t help them,” Wilde says.

“Yeah,” Earhart says, after a long pause. “Yeah, it really doesn’t.” Earhart laughs, small and defeated. She shakes her head and grins again. “Enough of this. I really must be losing my touch if a Meritocrat pet is giving me advice on how to run my crew.”

Wilde tosses his hair. “What can I say? I’m a very _helpful_ Meritocrat pet.”

“Then fuck off,” Earhart says. “Go help someone who actually wants it.”

Wilde goes serious. He nods. “I will.”

  
  
  


Wilde puts on Zolf’s jumper and he walks back to the lighthouse. 

The first thing he notices when he gets there is that, even though it’s getting dark, the lighthouse beacon is dimmed, hazy, like Zolf hasn’t been keeping it fueled and cleaned like he usually does.

His heart sinking, Wilde pushes open the door of the lighthouse. It’s unlocked, slightly open. The lighthouse, normally warm and snug, is cold and damp inside. Wilde goes from room to room, looking for Zolf. The air feels heavy, hostile — Wilde wants to call out Zolf’s name but he’s hesitant to raise his voice, like something else will hear him.

He finds Zolf in the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey open in front of him. Wilde stands in the doorway for a while. Zolf is turned away from him slightly and doesn’t notice him at first. Wilde’s eyes catch on the circles beneath his eyes, the etched lines of worry in his face.

“I hope you saved some for me,” Wilde says, stepping into the kitchen.

Zolf startles, his head turning quickly, but Wilde just calmly pulls out a mug in the cupboard and sits down at the table across from Zolf like this just another night of them sharing a drink, talking into midnight. Like he never left at all.

But the shock on Zolf’s face tells a different story. He stares at Wilde, and then gathers himself.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Zolf says, stern.

“You did,” Wilde says cheerfully. “But, you know, you never said I couldn’t come _back_. So here I am.”

Zolf frowns. “Wilde—”

“No, enough,” Wilde says, interrupting him. He leans forward across the table, his eyes sharp on Zolf’s. “I walked quite a long way to get here, and I had a lot of time to think about what I was going to say to you when I saw you. So you’re going to listen to me, all right?”

He can tell that Zolf is stunned by this. Wilde is stunned by himself also. His heart is beating its way into his throat; he feels nervous in a way he never even felt before singing on a stage.

“Say what you have to say,” Zolf says. He already sounds dismissive.

“Then here it is,” Wilde says. He takes Zolf’s hands in his. Zolf lets him. “You helped me when I was at my lowest point. You took me in, even if you didn’t want to, and you harbored me, and you showed me that I was worth more than what life had given me.”

He hears Zolf suck in a breath. Wilde can’t look at Zolf’s face — he forces himself to keep going.

“It’s a hard thing to believe. Trust me, I know this. I think if you hadn’t bludgeoned me in the head with it over and over it never would have stuck. You’re quite persistent, Zolf. It’s one of your worst traits.”

This earns him a quiet laugh. Zolf’s hands squeeze his. Wilde laughs, too, just at the joy of that.

Wilde says, “It’s one of your worst traits, because it’s so damnably difficult to get you to take your own advice, you know that? You told me I was worth more than this. You are worth more than this too, Zolf.”

He looks up at Zolf, then. Zolf’s eyes are shining with an emotion that Wilde can’t name, except that it moves Wilde in equal amounts — he feels like every part of him is singing.

“Wilde,” Zolf says, his voice rough. “I can’t — I don’t know what will happen if I leave. What if—”

“You won’t know until you try,” Wilde says fiercely. “And I’ll be there with you.”

“Why me?” Zolf says. 

“I would have stayed forever at this lighthouse if I thought I could,” Wilde tells him, honestly. “If I thought that it didn’t hurt you to remain its keeper.”

“But why _me_?” Zolf says. “You could have anyone. Why did you choose me?”

Again, Wilde curses Zolf for his stubbornness. He is searching Wilde for an answer that Wilde doesn’t know if he’s ready to give. But he has to give it, otherwise Zolf will never believe him.

Here, Wilde loses his confidence. The significance of what he is about to say robs his voice of some of its strength. 

“I’m in love with you, Zolf,” Wilde says. The force of his confession swoops through him, robbing him of breath. “I’m in love with _you._ No one else.”

“You—” Zolf blinks at him, his mouth open. “You’re joking, you—”

“Oh, dear,” Wilde says, putting his face in his hands and laughing. There are tears prickling at his eyes. He feels completely overwhelmed. “I haven’t done a good job of confessing my love if you don’t even believe me. This would be so much better if I had written it all down beforehand. Improvising was never my strongest suit, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it,” Zolf says. There is so much warm affection in Zolf’s voice — Wilde can feel it blooming in his own chest. “You always do end up puttin’ your foot in your mouth.”

Zolf comes over to his side of the table. Gently, so gently, he takes Wilde’s wrists and pulls his hands away from Wilde’s face. Wilde takes in the expression on Zolf’s face and sucks in a panicked breath. 

Here it was, the moment where it all ended.

Wilde says, quickly, “If you’re going to let me down, do it now so I can leave and go back to London and probably change my name, and—”

Wilde’s mouth is stopped by the press of Zolf’s lips on his. 

Zolf kisses him with intention, with a surging warmth, like he’s just been waiting for this chance, like all this time all he needed was for Wilde to let him. Wilde lets out a surprised noise, and then his eyes close. He pulls Zolf close to him, unwilling to let go, unwilling to put any more distance between them.

He thinks, distantly, of the last time he kissed Zolf here, sitting at this exact table. If only he knew then what he knows now.

“Oh, right,” Zolf says, pulling away. They’re both breathing a little roughly, and Wilde can’t stop staring at how pink Zolf’s lips have gotten. “I should say, I’m in love with you too. Sorry, I did that out of order, didn’t I?” He sounds sheepish.

Wilde laughs, such a lightness filling him that he can’t stop laughing once he’s begun. He puts his face into Zolf’s neck, breathing in that familiar smell of him, and he laughs.

“Did I break you?” Zolf says, amused. He puts a hand on the back of Wilde’s head, hesitant at first, and then more confident, his fingers running through Wilde’s hair, scratching a little at his scalp.

Wilde breaks off his laughter to sigh a little at the sensation of it. He burrows his nose further into Zolf’s neck. “Yes, you did,” he says, happily.

“That’s a shame,” Zolf says. Wilde can hear the smile in his voice. “I had so much more I wanted to do with you.”

This catches Wilde’s attention. He straightens up, looking at Zolf eagerly. “You did?”

Zolf laughs. He takes Wilde’s chin in one hand, traces over Wilde’s lips with his thumb. “Where did your mind go, you horny bastard?”

Wilde pouts. “I can’t help it if you distract me to no end. You’re impossible to look away from.”

Zolf’s brow furrows. “Then why — when I offered to sleep with you, why didn’t you—”

Wilde makes a face. “I was still figuring out how I felt and — I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to stop feeling that. It was selfish, I suppose.”

“It was,” Zolf says. “Stupid, too. You’re not going to lose me. I promise.”

“Then you’ll come with me?” Wilde says. “To London? Away from here?”

He can see Zolf bracing himself for what he’s about to say. “Yeah. Yes, I will. I think it’s time I gave it a shot. Turn a new leaf, for once. It’s time for me to leave.”

Zolf goes still then. Wilde goes still too. For a long careful moment, they both listen to the silence around them, the muffled sound of the ocean, the gentle settling of the lighthouse around them in the wind.

It doesn’t feel like anything has changed. But of course it has. The world has shifted, even if they can’t see it yet.

Zolf breaks the silence first, with a snort. He runs a hand over his face. “Why did I think that saying it out loud would bring the ocean on top of us, or something.” He puts one foot forward and wiggles it. “At least thought my legs would fall off.”

“Zolf, you dirty blasphemer,” Wilde says, with delight. “Don’t sound so disappointed. Do you want to go down to the beach and _really_ make a spectacle of your defiance? We could tempt Poseidon’s wrath together, if you want. Make your excommunication official, so to speak.”

“Absolutely not,” Zolf growls. “What I _want_ is to take you to bed and worship you instead. If that’s not blasphemy, I don’t know what is.”

“Oh,” Wilde says, eyes widening. 

Zolf kisses him again, and this time Wilde feels the hunger in it, the urgency. The immensity of Zolf’s decision begins to sink in for them both. Zolf is turning his back on a god bent on keeping Zolf in his tides. Leaving that behind will have consequences. Wilde kisses Zolf back, pressing all his promises into it. He will lend Zolf his strength, when he has nothing else to give. He’ll see him through this, as best he can.

“I don’t know what he’ll do to me for this, Oscar,” Zolf says, his voice rough, his hand cupping Wilde’s jaw. 

“We’ll find out together,” Wilde says.

  
  
  


Zolf takes Wilde to his room. 

It feels like they’ve done this many times before, even though it’s really only the first time. It’s so easy. It’s so easy to trust Zolf, to undress in front of him, to fall into bed. Zolf kisses him everywhere, his lips finding Wilde’s neck, his collarbone, the center of his chest. Wilde can barely think, so carried by the rise of his own desire, the fact that he gets to share this with Zolf. He gets to _have_ this.

Zolf spreads Wilde’s legs and settles over him completely, kissing him so thoroughly and carefully that Wilde never wants it to end. This is so completely different from all the other times he’s slept with someone. It’s always been about the performance, about impressing his lover. This slow building heat, this tenderness — it is unfamiliar to him. He wants all of it.

“Now would be a good time for me to say it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve done this,” Zolf tells him. His lips are almost to Wilde’s ear, his beard brushing the sensitive skin there. Wilde shivers in his arms.

“Are you going to tell me you’re not good at this?” Wilde says, petulant. “Because I _know_ that’s not true.”

He feels Zolf smirk against his neck. “What’s the matter, Oscar? Feeling out of your league?”

Wilde maneuvers them, slipping out from under Zolf and then hooking a leg around his hips so that he straddles Zolf on the bed. Zolf looks stunned, like he wasn’t expecting that move at all, and Wilde allows himself a smug grin.

“You were saying?” he says.

“Yeah, all right, that was pretty smooth,” Zolf grumbles. He tugs Wilde down for another kiss, and this time Wilde smiles into it, running his hands over Zolf’s strong chest, feeling the hard muscles of his arms and shoulders. Gods, this dwarf is _exquisite_.

He moves down, kissing Zolf’s belly. Zolf took off his shirt, but he’s still wearing his trousers. Wilde begins to unlace these, taking his time. He can see the bulge of Zolf’s cock straining at the front of them. It’s impossible to resist bending his head, sucking at Zolf’s clothed erection. 

Zolf lets out a drawn out groan, his hips twitching, straining against the urge to grind forward against Wilde’s face. Wilde laughs, moves up again to mouth at Zolf’s hipbone, biting gently.

“Fuck,” Zolf says. “The way you look right now, Oscar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like you.”

Wilde blinks at him. It’s not the kind of bed talk he’s used to. Usually his lovers will say something about how good his mouth feels, how they can’t wait to be inside him, something along those lines. Zolf, though, talks like Wilde is something to be marveled at. He always does manage to find a way to surprise him.

He has no reply, so Wilde ducks his head, unlacing Zolf’s trousers all the way and pulling out Zolf’s cock. This, at least, he is sure of.

Zolf makes a choked off noise at the feeling of Wilde’s fingers on his cock. “Oscar, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I want to,” Wilde assures him. He wants to take Zolf apart, he wants the taste of him filling his mouth. He bends down, his lips barely brushing the underside. “Please?” he says.

“Like I’m going to say no to that, you bastard,” Zolf says, strained, and that’s all the answer Wilde needs before he’s sinking his mouth down on Zolf, swallowing him entirely.

Zolf lets out a low, rumbling groan — nowhere near as gone as Wilde would like him to be, but there’s time for that yet. Wilde knows what he’s doing now, knows how exactly to flatten his tongue against the head, easing his throat so that he can take Zolf almost to the root. 

Zolf’s cock isn’t as long as a human’s, but it’s magnificently thick and it fills Wilde’s mouth up beautifully. His jaw will certainly be pleasantly sore in the morning. Wilde wonders how it would feel if Zolf fucked him with it, if he opened himself up and sunk down onto Zolf’s cock until he was seated on it fully.

Wilde moans at the image of it in his head, and Zolf swears, his hips moving restlessly beneath Wilde, not quite lifting off the mattress.

“You absolute — gods — _menace_ , I can’t believe you,” Zolf says, his voice rough. He tilts his hips forward and Wilde gladly takes him further into his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Zolf says. “Fuck you, Oscar.”

Here, Wilde pulls off of Zolf’s cock with a pop, smiling when Zolf twitches. “I _would_ like you to fuck me, actually, now that you bring it up,” Wilde says. 

He’s aware how wrecked his voice sounds — Zolf hears it too, if the sudden darkening of his eyes is any indication. Wilde sees Zolf look at his lips, swollen and wet. Just the feeling of Zolf admiring him like this is enough to make Wilde even harder.

“All right,” Zolf says. He scoots out from under Wilde, and Wilde watches with interest as Zolf shucks off his trousers and then reaches for a bottle in his drawers.

“Oh, Zolf,” Wilde says, with surprise, upon seeing the bottle of oil.

Zolf turns red. “I said it’s been a while. I didn’t say I was _completely_ out of practice.”

“Zolf, believe me, I am delighted,” Wilde says. “This would have been much more difficult otherwise. After all, I left all my belongings back in the village.”

“You really just _walked_ here all to make me come back with you?” Zolf says, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think you got cursed with madness instead.”

“I’d do it again,” Wilde says, deliriously. “I’d walk to the ends of the earth.” 

Zolf snorts. “The earth is round, Oscar, it ain’t _got_ an end.”

“Poetry is lost on you, my dear Zolf,” Wilde says with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, didn’t exactly get top marks on it in school,” Zolf says, grinning.

“I’ll just have to teach you, then,” Wilde says. He takes the bottle of oil from Zolf’s hands and pours some over his fingers, then he arranges himself so that his legs are spread, and Zolf has a perfect view of his fingers as they sink into his ass.

Wilde lets out a moan. It’s been a while since he’s done this, and he goes slow, stretching himself while Zolf watches. Zolf makes appreciative noises, running his hands up Wilde’s thighs, spreading him open further.

“You love this,” Zolf says, quietly, reverently.

“Yes,” Wilde says. He’s fucking himself fully onto two of his fingers now, scissoring them just the way he likes, but it’s not enough, he needs—

Wilde whines wordlessly, and then Zolf is there like he was summoned, taking the bottle from Wilde and spreading oil on his fingers. 

“I’ve got you,” Zolf says, and presses in.

Wilde tosses his head back onto the mattress and moans at the feeling of Zolf’s fingers entering him. Even just two of them are deliciously thick, stretching him so wonderfully. Wilde wants more. He takes hold of Zolf’s wrist and starts moving upon his hand, taking his fingers deeper.

“Fuck,” Zolf says. “Look at you. Oscar, just how long have you wanted this?”

“Mmm. Ages,” Wilde says. “Since I first saw you in those pools. You looked like a creature out of heaven.”

“You mad bastard,” Zolf says, fondly. “Whatever you see in me, I think I’m scared to find out.”

Wilde lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s too bad, Zolf, because I have every intention of letting you know — what you mean to me — what you — ah! — I just need to find the words.”

Zolf kisses him, and it’s strangely chaste considering that Zolf’s fingers are fucking into him. It still manages to make Wilde’s head spin, the _love_ behind it.

“You’ll find them,” Zolf tells him. “And I’ll be here to listen, when you come up with them.”

Zolf adds more oil, and then he fits a third finger in, apparently bent on taking Wilde apart utterly. He presses in at just the angle that Wilde has been aching for, and Wilde groans his pleasure, his vision going briefly white. He’s only aware, distantly, of how hard he is, how he’s dripping wet.

“Please, Zolf,” Wilde begs. “I want you in me, I’m ready, please.”

To his relief, Zolf seems to be just as impatient as Wilde is. His hands are shaking as he slicks up his cock. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against Wilde’s hole, and Zolf lets out a noise of disbelief.

“Think you’ll be the death of me, Oscar,” Zolf says, raggedly, and then his cock is sliding into Wilde, and Wilde feels a certain sort of euphoria take him. He arches his back, letting Zolf’s cock slide in still deeper, and Zolf swears over him and begins to fuck him.

Wilde begins to slide across the mattress at the force of it; he braces one hand against the headboard to keep himself still, to let Zolf slam his hips forward and fill him up so sweetly, so completely.

They are, both of them, lost to this. 

Zolf is glistening with sweat at the effort and so is Wilde. He pulls Zolf closer so that they are joined everywhere they can possibly be joined, Zolf’s fingers curling into his hair, Wilde lifting his hips, meeting Zolf’s thrusts, coaxing a building rhythm out of him.

Zolf finds that wonderful spot inside of him, and then Wilde is coming, his cock barely touched. Above him, Zolf swears, and then he comes too, filling Wilde up.

When Wilde comes back to himself, he finds he is grinning at the ceiling. Zolf groans and slides out of Wilde. 

“No, come back,” Wilde says, weakly.

“Calm down, I’m just getting somethin’ to clean you up,” Zolf says.

“Oh, that’s good,” Wilde says, the words slurring together. Every part of him feels loose and wonderful. “You’re very considerate.”

Zolf snorts. “Is that my review then? 'Zolf Smith, always considerate in bed.'”

“Zolf, you were _incredible_ ,” Wilde says, breathlessly. “I think I’m floating.”

Zolf makes a disparaging noise. “Probably because you haven’t been eating right. You think I wouldn’t notice how thin you’ve gotten? I might have some words with that fisherman for not feeding you right. I — oh, hell, stop smiling like that, Oscar.”

Wilde smiles even more. “I can’t help it.”

“Yes you can,” Zolf grumbles. “It’s your face that’s doing it.” He takes a wet washcloth and cleans Wilde off and then gets into bed next to Wilde, his arms holding him close.

“I’m just very happy, that’s all,” Wilde says, yawning widely. He nuzzles into Zolf’s chest.

“I can see that,” Zolf mutters, but when Wilde turns his head up to look, Zolf is smiling too.

  
  
  


They leave the lighthouse together in the morning.

Wilde sees the moment where it all becomes real for Zolf. The skirt around a hill and the lighthouse vanishes from view, and Zolf’s shoulders lose some of the tension they’ve been carrying for as long as Wilde has known him.

“Are you all right?” Wilde asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I—” Zolf takes a deep breath. “I feel good.” His eyes are bright. Wilde takes his hand and squeezes it.

“Then let’s keep going,” he says. For the first time in a long time, Wilde is excited to see what will happen next.

  
  
  


They’re on the train back to London when Poseidon takes Zolf’s legs away.

Zolf is standing when it happens, and Wilde sees him suddenly crumple, the legs melting away out from under him, his boots falling limp to the side. Wilde catches Zolf in his arms before he can fall completely, supporting Zolf’s weight as best he can.

Zolf lets out a disbelieving laugh. “So it finally happened,” he says. “Only surprised it took so long, if I’m going to be honest.”

Wilde lowers Zolf back into his seat carefully. They’ve already discussed what would happen once Zolf’s legs were taken away, and so Wilde already has a few plans of his own. They can acquire a chair for him when they reach London, and Wilde has heard rumors of dazzling feats of engineering that can produce magnificent prosthetics. 

“I never liked the look of those legs anyway,” Wilde says, sitting next to Zolf. “We’ll get you ones that are far better. How does it feel now that they’re gone?”

“Well, I feel lighter,” Zolf says. “Less sloshy. I don’t drip as much, either.”

“You never _dripped_ ,” Wilde says, offended on Zolf’s behalf.

“You should have seen my socks,” Zolf says, with a straight face. “Saltwater in them all the time.”

Wilde lets out a very unattractive snort of laughter that he hides immediately behind his hand. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’ll certainly make the laundry much easier,” Zolf says, raising one of his legs. His expression goes a little wistful then, and he falls quiet.

Wilde puts his hands on Zolf’s thighs and kisses him. It goes on for longer than it should, probably, but Wilde can never get enough of Zolf’s kisses, especially when Zolf does _that_ with his tongue. When they break apart, they’re both a little flushed, and Zolf looks smug. Wilde is already concocting a plan of getting Zolf to fuck him on this train. Later, though. For now, all he wants is to curl up next to Zolf on the seat and tuck his head beneath Zolf’s chin. So he does.

“I’m glad I came with you, Oscar,” Zolf says, softly. He kisses the top of Wilde’s head, and, together, they continue on.


End file.
